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There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no pany, dined early) thld winter wind had brought with it clouds so sore, and a rain so peing, that further out-door eercise was now out of the question.
I was gd of it: I neer liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to was the ing ho in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and huled by the sciousness of  hysical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Geiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Geiana were now clustered round their in the drawing-roo she y reed on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the ti her quarrelling n) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed frojoining the group; saying, “She regretted to be uhe y of keepi a distance; but that until she heard froBessie, anuld d;bdi;/bdier by her own obseration, that I was endea in good earo acquire a re sociable and childlike disposition, a re attractie and sprightly nner— sothing lighter, franker, re natural, as it were—she really st eclude fropriileges intended only for tented, happy, little children.”
“What does Bessie say I hae done?” I asked.
“Jane, I don’t like caillers or questioners; besides, there is sothing truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that nner. Be seated sowhere; and until you speak pleasantly, rein silent.”
A breakfast-rooadjoihe drawing-roo I slipped in there. It tained a bookcase: I soon possessed self of a olu, taking care that it should be oored with pictures. I unted into the window-seat: gathering up feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, haing drawn the red reen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirent.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in iew to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of gss, proteg, but not separating frothe drear Noeer day. At interals, while turnihe leaes of book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale bnk of st and cloud; near a se of wet wn and storbeat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and ntable bst.
I returo book—Bewick’s History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little fenerally speaking; ahere were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, uld not pass quite as a bnk. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of “the solitary rocks and prontories” by theonly inhabited; of thast of Norway, studded with isles froits southerrety, the Lindeness, or o the North Cape—
“Where the Northern O, in ast whirls,
Boils round the naked, ncholy isles
Of farthest Thule; and the Atntic surge
Pours in ang the stor Hebrides.”
Nould I pass unnoticed;rk?99lｉb.;/rk the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapnd, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Noa Ze, Id, Greennd, with “the ast sweep of the Arctie, and those forlions of dreary space,—that reseroir of frost and snow, where firfields of ice, the aution of turies of winters, gzed in Alpis aboe heights, surround the pole, and tre the iplied rigours of etred.” Of these death-white real I ford an idea of own: shadowy, like all the half-prehended notions that float dithrough children’s brains, but strangely iressie. The words in these introductory pages ected theeles with the sueeding iges, and gae significe to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desotast; to thld and ghastly on gng through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.
I ot tell what se hauhe quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstos gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-rise, attesting the hour of eentide.
The two ships becald on a torpid sea, I belieed to be rine phanto.
The fiend pinning dowhief’s pack behind hi I passed oer quickly: it was an object of terror.
So was the bck horhied aloof on a rock, sureying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.
Each picture told a story; sterious often to undeeloped uanding and ierfect feelings, yet eer profoundly iing: as iing as the tales Bessie sotis narrated on winter eenings, when she ced to be in good huur; and when, haing brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed’s ce frills, and cried her nightcap borders, fed er attention with passages of loe and adeaken froold fairy tales and other balds; or (as at a ter period I dered) frothe pages of Pa, and Henry, Earl of Morend.
With Bewiy knee, I was then happy: happy at least in way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that ca too soon. The ９９ｌib?breakfast-roodoor opened.
“Boh! MadaMope!” cried the oice of Johhen he paused: he found the rooapparently ety.
“Where the dis is she!” he tinued. “Lizzy! Geo?9９ｌib.rgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell she is run out into the rain—bad anil!”
“It is well I drew the curtain,” thought I; and I wished ferently he ght not der ;cite;/citey hiding-por would John Reed hae found it out hielf; he was not quick either of ision or ception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once—
“She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack.”
And I ca out iediately, for I treled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack.
“What do you want?” I asked, with awkward diffidence.
“Say, ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’” was the answer. “I want you to e here;” aing hielf in an archair, he intited by a gesture that I was to approad stand before hi
John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: rge and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholeso skin; thick lis in a spacious isage, heay lis and rge etreties. He ged hielf habitually at table, which de hibilious, and gae hia diand bleared eye and fbby cheeks. He ought now to hae been at school; but his had taken hiho for a nth or two, “on at of his delicate heah.” Mr. Miles, the ster, affird that he would do ery well if he had fewer cakes and sweetats sent hifroho; but the ther’s heart turned froan opinion so harsh, and ined rather to the re refined idea that John’s sallowness was owing to oer-application and, perhaps, to pining after ho.
John had not ch affe for his ther and sisters, and an antipathy to . He bullied and punished ; not two or three tis in the week, nor once or twi the day, but tinually: eery nere I had feared hi and eery rsel of flesh in bones shrank when he ear. There were nts when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whateer agaiher his naces or his inflis; the serants did not like to offend their young ster by taking  art against hi and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she neer saw histrike or heard hiabuse , though he did both now and then in her ery presence, re frequently, howeer, behind her back.
Habitually obedient to John, I ca up to his chair: he spent so three nutes in thrusting out his to as far as huld without daging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I sed on the disgusting and ugly appearance of hiwho would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and aining equilibriuretired back a step or two frohis chair.
“That is for your iuden answering awhile since,” said he, “and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two nutes since, you rat!”
Aced to John Reed’s abuse, I neer had an idea of replying to it; care was how to ehe blow which would certainly follow the insu.
“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he asked.
“I was reading.”
“Show the book.”
I returo the window ached it thence.
“You hae no busio take our books; you are a depe, says; you hae no ney; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to lie here with gentlen’s children like us, ahe sa als we do, and wear clothes at our ’s epense. Now, I’ll teach you te booksheles: for they are ne; all the house belongs to , or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the rror and the windows.”
I did so, not at first aware what was his iion; but when I saw hilift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctiely started aside with a cry of ar not soon enough, howeer; the olu was flung, it hit , and I fell, striking head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: terror had passed its cli; other feelings sueeded.
“Wicked and cruel boy!” I said. “You are like a rderer—you are like a se-drier—you are like the Ron eerors!”
I had read Goldsth’s History of Ro, and had ford opinion of Nero, Caligu, c. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I hought thus to hae decred aloud.
“What! what!” he cried. “Did she say that to ? Did you hear her, Eliza and Geiana? Won’t I tell ? but first—”
He ran headlong at : I fe higrasp hair and shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in hia tyrant, a rderer. I fe a drop or two of blood fro head trickle down neck, and was sensible of sou suffering: these sensations for the ti predonated oer fear, and I receied hiin frantic sort. I don’t ery well know what I did with hands, but he called “Rat! Rat!” and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near hi Eliza and Geiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she noon the se, followed by Bessie and her id Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words—
“Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!”
“Did eer anybody see such a picture of passion!”
Then Mrs. Reed subjoined—
“Take her away to the red-roo and lock her in there.” Four hands were iediately id upon , and I was borne upstairs.
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