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Two days are passed. It is a suer eening; the an has set down at a pce called Whitcross; huld take no farther for the suI had gien, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world. Thach is a le off by this ti; I aalo this nt I der that I fot to take  arcel out of the pocket of thach, where I had pced it for safety; there it reins, there it st rein; and now, I aabsolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor een a haet; it is but a stone pilr set up where four roads et: whitewashed, I suppose, to be re obious at a distand in darkness. Four ar spring froits suit: the own to which these point is, a to the inscription, distant tehe farthest, aboe twenty. Frothe well-known nas of these towns I learn in what ty I hae lighted; a north-dnd shire, dusk with ornd, ridged with untain: this I see. There are great ors behind and on each hand of ; there are waes of untains far beyond that deep alley at feet. The popution here st be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south—white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the or, and the heather grows deep and wild to their ery erge. Yet a ce traeller ght pass by; and I wish o see now: strangers would wonder what I adoing, lingering here at the sign-post, eidently objectless and lost. I ght be questioned: uld gie no answer but what would sound incredible ae suspi. Not a tie holds to hun society at this nt—not a charor hope calls where fellow-creatures are—hat saw would hae a kind thought ood wish for . I hae ie but the uniersal ther, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown orside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a ss-bed granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down u. High banks of or were about ; the crag protected head: the sky was oer that.
So ti passed before I fe tranquil een here: I had a ague dread that wild cattle ght be near, or that so sportsn or poacher ght der . If a gust of wind swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a ploer whistled, I igi a n. Finding apprehensions unfounded, howeer, and cald by the deep silehat reigned as eening deed at nightfall, I took fidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened, watched, dreaded; now I regaihe facuy of refle.
What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when uld do nothing and go nowhere!—when a long way st yet be asured by weary, treling lis before uld reach hun habitation—wheld charity st be eed before uld get a lodging: relut syathy iortuned, alst certain repulse incurred, before taluld be listeo, or one of wants relieed!
I touched the heath, it was dry, a warwith the beat of the suer day. I looked at the sky; it ure: a kindly star twinkled just aboe the chasridge. The dew fell, but with propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seed to benign and good; I thought she loed , outcast as I was; and I, who frould anticipate only strust, reje, insu, g to her with filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was her child: ther would lodge without ney and without price. I had one rsel of bread yet: the reant of a roll I had bought in a town we passed through at noon with a stray penny— st . I saw ripe bilberries gleang here and there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a handful and ate thewith the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased by this hert’s al. I said eening prayers at its clusion, and then uch.
Beside the crag the heath was ery deep: when I y down feet were buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow space for the night-air to inade. I folded shawl double, and spread it oer for erlet; a low, ssy swell was  illow. Thus lodged, I was not, at least—at the e of the nightld.
My rest ght hae been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It pined of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its rien chords. It treled for Mr. Rochester and his doo it beaned hiwith bitter pity; it dended hiwith ceaseless longing; and, iotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quiered its shattered pinions in ain attets to seek hi
Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to knees. Night was e, and her ps were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the panionship of fear. We know that God is eerywhere; but certainly we feel His prese when His works are on the gra scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silehat we read clearest His infinitude, His oipotence, His oipresence. I had risen to ko pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-died eyes, saw the ghty Milky-way. Reering what it was—what tless syste there swept space like a soft trace of light—I fe the ght and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficy to sae what He had de: inced I grew that her earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned  rayer to thanksgiing: the Source of Life was also the Saiour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe; he was God’s, and by God would he be guarded. I agailed to the breast of the hill; and ere long in sleep fot sorrow.
But day, Want ca to  ale and bare. Long after the little birds had left their s; long after bees had e in the sweet pri of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried— when the long shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky—I got up, and I looked round .
What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golde this spreading or! Eerywhere sunshine. I wished uld lie in it and on it. I saw a lizard ruhe crag; I saw a bee busy ang the sweet bilberries. I would fain at the nt hae bee bee or lizard, that I ght hae found fitting nutrint, per sheer here. But I was a hun being, and had a hun being’s wants: I st not linger where there was nothing to supply the I rose; I looked back at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this—that Maker had that night thought good to require soul of while I slept; and that this weary fra, absoled by death frofurther flict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and ngle in peace with the soil of this wilderness. Life, howeer, was yet in  ossession, with all its requirents, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden st be carried; the roided for; the suffering ehe responsibility fulfilled. I set out.
Whited, I followed a road which led frothe sun, now ferent and high. By no other circe had I will to decide choice. I walked a long ti, and when I thought I had nearly done enough, and ght stiously yield to the fatigue that alst oerpowered —ght re this forced a, and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, subt resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart and li—I heard a bell chi—a church bell.
I turned in the dire of the sound, and there, angst the rontic hills, whose ges and aspect I had ceased to note an ho, I saw a haet and a spire. All the alley at right hand was full of pasture-fields, and fields, and wood; and a glittering strearan zig-zag through the aried shades of green, the llowing grain, the sore woodnd, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the ruling of wheels to the road before , I saw a heaily-den waggon b up the hill, and not far beyowws and their droer. Hun life and hun bour were near. I st struggle on: strie to lie ao toil like the rest.
About two o’clock p. I ehe ilge. At the bottoof its oreet there was a little shop with so cakes of bread in the window. eted a cake of bread. With that refreshnt uld perhaps regain a degree of energy: without it, it would be difficu to proceed. The wish to hae sth and so igour returo as soon as I was angst fellow-beings. I fe it would be degrading to faint with hunger on the causeway of a haet. Had I nothing about uld offer in ege for one of these rolls? I sidered. I had a sll silk handkerchief tied round throat; I had gloes. uld hardly tell how n and woies of destitution proceeded. I did not know whether either of these articles would be aepted: probably they would not; but I st try.
I ehe shop: a won was there. Seeing a respectably- dressed person, a dy as she supposed, she ca forward with ciility. Hould she sere ? I was seized with sha: tongue would not utter the request I had prepared. I dared not offer her the half-wloes, the creased handkerchief: besides, I fe it would be absurd. I only begged perssion to sit down a nt, as I was tired. Disappointed in the epectation of a er, sholly aeded to request. She poio a seat; I sank into it. I fe sorely urged to weep; but scious how unseasonable such a ion would be, I restrai. Soon I asked her “if there were any dressker or pin-workwon in the ilge?”
“Yes; two or three. Quite as ny as there was eloynt for.”
I reflected. I was drien to the point now. I was brought face to face with y. I stood in the position of ohout a resource, without a friend, without a . I st do sothing. What? I st apply sowhere. Where?
“Did she know of any p the neighbourhood where a serant was wanted?”
“Nay; shuldn’t say.”
“What was the chief trade in this pce? What did st of the people do?”
“So were farbourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Olier’s needle-factory, and at the foundry.”
“Did Mr. Olier eloy won?”
“Nay; it was n’s work.”
“And what do the won do?”
“I knawn’t,” was the answer. “So does ohing, and so another. Poor folk on as they .”
She seed to be tired of questions: and, indeed, what cihad I to iortune her? A neighbour or two ; chair was eidently wanted. I took leae.
I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to the right hand and to the left; but uld der no pretet, nor see an i to enter any. I raled round the haet, going sotis to a little distaurning again, for an hour or re. Much ehausted, and suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside into a ne and sat down uhe hedge. Ere ny nutes had epsed, I was again on feet, howeer, and again searg sothing—a resource, or at least an infornt. A pretty little house stood at the top of the ne, with a garden before it, equisitely and brilliantly bloong. I stopped at it. What business had I to approach the white door or touch the glittering knocker? In what wauld it possibly be the i of the inhabitants of that dwelling to sere ? Yet I drew near and knocked. A ld-looking, ly-attired young ehe door. In such a oice as ght be epected froa hopeless heart and fainting fra—a oice wretchedly low and faering—I asked if a serant was wanted here?
“No,” said she; “we do not keep a serant.”
“ you tell where uld get eloynt of any kind?” I tinued. “I aa stranger, without acquaintan this pce. I want so work: no tter what.”
But it was not her busio think for , or to seek a pe: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful st hae appeared character, position, tale. She shook her head, she “was sorry shuld gie no infortion,” and the white door closed, quite gently and ciilly: but it shut out. If she had held it open a little longer, I beliee I should hae begged a piece of bread; for I was nht low.
uld not bear to return to the sordid ilge, where, besides, no prospect of aid was isible. I should hae longed rather to deiate to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer initing sheer; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature’s gs, instinct kept roang round abodes where there was a ce of food. Solitude would be no solitude—rest — while the uure, huhus sank beak and talons in side.
I drew near houses; I left the and ca back again, and again I wandered away: always repelled by the sciousness of haing no cito ask—nht to epeterest in isoted lot. Meahe afternoon adanced, while I thus wandered about like a lost and staring dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire before : I hasteowards it. he churchyard, and in the ddle of a garden, stood a well-bui though sll house, which I had no doubt was the parsonage. I reered that strangers who arrie at a pce where they hae no friends, and who want eloynt, sotis apply to the clergyn for introdu and aid. It is the clergyn’s fun to help—at least with adice— those who wished to help theeles. I seed to hae sothing like a right to seek sel here. Renewing then ce, and gathering feeble reins of strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, and k the kit-door. An old ened: I asked was this the parsonage?
“Yes.”
“Was the clergyn in?”
“No.”
“Would he be in soon?”
“No, he was gone froho.”
“To a distance?”
“Not so far—happen three le. He had been called away by the suddeh of his father: he was at Marsh End now, and would ery likely stay there a fht longer.”
“Was there any dy of the house?”
“Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper;” and of her, reader, uld not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was sinking; uld not yet beg; and again I crawled away.
Once re I took off handkerchief—once re I thought of the cakes of bread itle shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but ohful to aly the pang of fane! Instinctiely I turned face again to the ilge; I found the shop again, and I went in; and though others were there besides the won I ehe request—“Would she gie a roll for this handkerchief?”
She looked at with eident suspi: “Nay, she neer sold stuff i’ that way.”
Alst desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused. “Hould she tell where I had got the handkerchief?” she said.
“Would she take gloes?”
“No! whauld she do with the”
Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. So say there is enjoynt in looking back to painful eperience past; but at this day I scarcely bear to reiew the tis to which I allude: the ral degradation, blent with the physical suffering, fortoo distressing a lle eer to be willingly dwe on. I bd none of those who repulsed . I fe it was what was to be epected, and whauld not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object of suspi; a well-dressed beggar iably so. To be sure, what I begged was eloynt; but whose business was it to proide with eloynt? Not, certainly, that of persons who saw then for the first ti, and who knew nothing about character. And as to the ould not take handkerchief in ege for her bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sinister or the ege unprofitable. Let dense now. I asick of the subject.
A little before dark I passed a farhouse, at the open door of which the farr was sittiing his supper of bread and cheese. I stopped and said—
“Will you gie a piece of bread? for I aery hungry.” He cast on a gnce of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thick slice frohis loaf, and gae it to . I igine he did not think I was a beggar, but only aric sort of dy, who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down and ate it.
uld not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the wood I hae before alluded to. But night was wretched, rest broken: the ground was da, the aild: besides, intruders passed near re than once, and I had again and again to ge quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended . Towards it raihe whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask , reader, to gie a of that day; as before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I stared; but once did food pass lips. At the door of ttage I saw a little girl about to throw a ss old pe into a pig trough. “Will you gie that?” I asked.
She stared at . “Mother!” she ecid, “there is a won wants to gie her these pe.”
“Well ss,” replied a oice within, “gie it her if she’s a beggar. T pig doesn’t want it.”
The girl etied the stiffened uld into hand, and I deoured it raenously.
As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or re.
“My strength is quite failing ,” I said in a soliloquy. “I feel I ot go ch farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night? While the rain desds so, st I y head on thld, drenched ground? I fear I ot do otherwise: for who will receie ? But it will be ery dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desotion—this total prostration of hope. In all likelihood, though, I should die before And why ot I recile self to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to retain a alueless life? Because I know, or beliee, Mr. Rochester is liing: and then, to die of want anld is a fate to whiature ot subt passiely. Oh, Proidence! sustain a little longer! Aid!—direct !”
My gzed eye wandered oer the diand sty ndscape. I saw I had strayed far frothe ilge: it was quite out of sight. The ery cuiation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross- ways and by-paths, once re drawhe traoornd; and now, only a few fields, alst as wild and unproductie as the heath frowhich they were scarcely recid, y between and the dusky hill.
“Well, I would rather die yohan in a street or on a frequented road,” I reflected. “And far better that crows and raens—if any raens there be in these regions—should pibsp; flesh fro bohan that they should be prisoned in a workhousffin and ulder in a pauper’s grae.”
To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It reined now only to find a hollow where uld lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked leel. It showed no ariation but of tint: green, where rush and ss rew the rshes; bck, where the dry soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting, uld still see these ges, though but as re aernations of light and shade; folour had faded with the daylight.
My eye still roed oer the sullen swell and along the , anishing adst the wildest sery, when at one dipoint, far in ang the rshes and the ridges, a light sprang up. “That is an ignis fatuus,” was first thought; and I epected it would soon anish. It burnt on, howeer, quite steadily, her reg nor adang. “Is it, then, a bonfire just kindled?” I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread: but no; as it did not dinish, so it did not enrge. “It y be a dle in a house,” I theured; “but if so, I eer reach it. It is ch too far away: and were it within a yard of , what would it aail? I should but knock at the door to hae it shut in face.”
And I sank down where I stood, and hid face against the ground. I y still a while: the night-wind swept oer the hill and oer , and died aning in the distahe rain fell fast, wetting afresh to the skin. uld I but hae stiffeo the still frost— the friendly nuness of death—it ght hae peed on; I should not hae fe it; but yet liing flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere long.
The light was yet there, shining dibut stant through the rain. I tried to walk again: I dragged ehausted lis slowly towards it. It led ashe hill, through a wide bog, which would hae been iassable in winter, and shy and shaking een now, in the height of suer. Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied facuies. This light was forlorn hope: I st gain it.
Haing crossed the rsh, I saw a trace of white oer the or. I approached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, whiow bead froa sort of knoll, adst a clu of trees—firs, apparently, frowhat uld distinguish of the character of their for and foliage through the gloo My star anished as I drew near: so obstacle had interened between and it. I put out hand to feel the dark ss before : I discrihe rough stones of a low wall—aboe it, sothing like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish object glead before : it was a gate—a wicket; it ed on its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a sable bush-holly or yew.
Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a house rose to iew, bck, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the intes retired to rest? I feared it st be so. In seeking the door, I turned an ahere shot out the friendly gleaagain, frothe lozenged panes of a ery sll tticed window, within a foot of the ground, de still sller by the growth of iy or so other creeping pnt, whose leaes clustered thick oer the portion of the house wall in which it was set. The aperture was so sed and narrow, that curtain or shutter had been deed unnecessary; and when I stooped dout aside the spray of foliage shooti, uld see all within. uld see clearly a roowith a sanded floor, nbspured; a dresser of walnut, with pewter ptes ranged in rows, refleg the redness and radiance of a glowi-fire. uld see a clock, a white deal table, so chairs. The dle, whose ray had been bea, burnt oable; and by its light an elderly won, sowhat rough-looking, but scrupulously , like all about her, was knitting a stog.
I noticed these objects cursorily only—ihere was nothiraordinary. A group of re i appeared he hearth, sitting still adst the rosy pead warh suffusing it. Two young, graceful won—dies in eery point—sat, one in a l-chair, the other on a lower stool; both wore deep of crape and boazeen, whibre garb singurly set off ery fair necks and faces: a rge old pointer dog rested its ssie head on the knee of one girl—in the p of the other was cushioned a bck cat.
A strange pce was this hule kit for such octs! Who were they? Theuld not be the daughters of the elderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustid they were all delicad cuiation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: a, as I gazed on the I seed ih eery li. I ot call thehandso—they were too pale and grae for the word: as they each bent oer a book, they looked thoughtful alst to seerity. A staween thesupported a sed dle and two great olus, to which they frequently referred, paring the seengly, with the sller books they held in their hands, like people suing a diary to aid theiask of transtion. This se was as silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit apartnt a picture: so hushed was it, uld hear the ders fall frothe grate, the clock ti its obscure er; and I een fancied uld distinguish the click- click of the won’s knitting-needles. When, therefore, a oice broke the straillness at st, it was audible enough to .
“Listen, Diana,” said one of the absorbed students; “Franz and old Daniel are together in the night-ti, and Franz is telling a dreafrowhich he has awakened in terror—listen!” And in a low oice she read sothing, of whiot one word was intelligible to ; for it was in an unknown tongue—her Frenor Latin. Whether it were Greek ern uld not tell.
“That is strong,” she said, when she had finished: “I relish it.” The irl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, while she gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read. At a ter day, I khe nguage and the book; therefore, I will here quote the lihough, when I first heard it, it was only like a stroke on sounding brass to —eying no aning:—
“‘Da trat heror Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.’ Good! good!” she ecid, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. “There you hae a diand ghty argel fitly set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages of fustian. ‘Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale ines Zornes und die Werke t deGewichte ines Gris.’ I like it!”
Both were again silent.
“Is there ony try where they talk i’ that way?” asked the old won, looking up froher knitting.
“Yes, Hannah—a far rger try than Engnd, where they talk in no other way.”
“Well, for sure case, I knawn’t how they uand t’ o’other: and if either o’ ye went there, yuld tell what they said, I guess?”
“Wuld probably tell sothing of what they said, but not all— for we are not as cleer as you think us, Hannah. We don’t speak Gern, a read it without a diary to help us.”
“And what g..;/aood does it do you?”
“We an to teach it so ti—or at least the elents, as they say; and then we shall get re han we do now.”
“Varry like: but gie ower studying; ye’e done enough for to- night.”
“I think we hae: at least I’tired. Mary, are you?”
“Mortally: a;dfn;/dfnfter all, it’s tough work fagging away at a nguage with no ster but a lei.”
“It is, especially such a nguage as this crabbed but glorious Deutsch. I wonder when St. John will e ho.”
“Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a little gold watch she drew frirdle). It rains fast, Hannah: will you hae the goodo look at the fire in the parlour?”
The won rose: she opened a door, through which I diy saassage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner roo she presently ca back.
“Ah, childer!” said she, “it fair troubles to go into yond’ roonow: it looks so loneso wi’ the chair ety a ba a er.”
She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grae before, looked sad now.
“But he is in a better pce,” tinued Hannah: “we shouldn’t wish hihere again. And then, nobody o hae a quieter death nor he had.”
“You say he ioned us?” inquired one of the dies.
“He hadn’t ti, bairn: he was gone in a nute, was your father. He had been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would like either o’ ye to be sent for, he fair ughed at hi He began again with a bit of a heainess in his head the day—that is, a fht sin’—and he went to sleep and nier wakened: he wor a’st stark when your brother went into t’ chaer and fand hi Ah, childer! that’s t’ st o’ t’ old stock—for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to the‘at’s gone; for all your ther wor ch i’ your way, and a’st as book-learned. She wor the pictur’ o’ ye, Mary: Diana is re like your father.”
I thought theso sir uld not tell where the old serant (for such I now cluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair pleioned and slenderly de; both possessed faces full of distin and intelligence. Oo be sure, had hair a shade darker thaher, and there was a differen their style of wearing it; Mary’s pale brown locks were parted and braided soth: Diana’s duskier tresseered her neck with thick curls. The clock struck ten.
“Ye’ll want your supper, I asure,” obsered Hannah; “and so will Mr. St. John when he es in.”
And she proceeded to prepare the al. The dies rose; they seed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this nt, I had been so i on watg the their appearaion had ecited in so keen an i, I had half-fotten owched position: now it recurred to . More desote, re desperate than eer, it seed frotrast. And how iossible did it appear to touch the intes of this house with on behalf; to ke thebeliee iruth of wants and woes—to iheto ouchsafe a rest for wanderings! As I groped out the door, and k it hesitatingly, I fe that st idea to be a re chira. Hannah opened.
“What do you want?” she inquired, in a oice of surprise, as she sureyed by the light of the dle she held.
“May I speak to your stresses?” I said.
“You had better tell what you hae to say to the Where do you e fro”
“I aa stranger.”
“What is your business here at this hour?”
“I want a night’s sheer in an out-house or anywhere, and a rsel of bread to eat.”
Distrust, the ery feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah’s face. “I’ll gie you a piece of bread,” she said, after a pause; “but we ’t take in a agrant to lodge. It isn’t likely.”
“Do let speak to your stresses.”
“No, not I. What they do for you? You should not be roing about now; it looks ery ill.”
“But where shall I go if you drie away? What shall I do?”
“Oh, I’ll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you don’t d, that’s all. Here is a penny; now go—”
“A penny ot feed , and I hae nth to go farther. Don’t shut the door:- oh, don’t, fod’s sake!”
“I st; the rain is driing in—”
“Tell the young dies. Let see the ”
“Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn’t ke such a noise. Moe off.”
“But I st die if I aturned away.”
“Not you. I’fear’d you hae so ill pns agate, that bring you about folk’s houses at this ti o’ night. If you’e any followers—housebreakers or such like—anywhere near, you y tell thewe are not by ourseles in the house; we hae a gentlen, and dogs, and guns.” Here the ho but infleible serant cpped the door to and boed it within.
This was the cli. A pang of equisite suffering—a throe of true despair—ren;bdi;/bdit and heaed heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not aeuld I stir. I sank o doorstep: I groaned— I wrung hands—I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this st hour, approag in such horror! As, this isotion—this banishnt fro kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude was go least for a nt; but the st I soon endeaoured tain.
“I but die,” I said, “and I beliee in God. Let try to wait His will in silence.”
These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all sery into heart, I de an effort to pel it to rein there—du and still.
“All n st die,” said a oice quite close at hand; “but all are not o et a lingering and preture doo such as yours would be if you perished here of want.”
“Who or eaks?” I asked, terrified at the ued sound, and incapable now of deriing froany ourrence a hope of aid. A forwas near—what for the pitch-dark night and enfeebled isioed frodistinguishing. With a loud long knock, the new-er appealed to the door.
“Is it you, Mr. St. John?” cried Hannah.
“Yes—yes; open quickly.”
“Well, how wet anld you st be, such a wild night as it is! e in—your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I beliee there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-won—I decre she is not go!—id down there. Get up! for sha! Moe off, I say!”
“Hush, Hannah! I hae a word to say to the won. You hae done your duty in ecluding, now let do ne in adtting her. I was near, and listeo both you and her. I think this is a peculiar case—I st at least eao it. Young won, rise, and pass before into the house.”
With difficuy I obeyed hi Presently I stood within that , bright kit—on the ery hearth—treling, siing; scious of an aspe the st degree ghastly, wild, aher-beaten. The two dies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old serant, were all gazing at .
“St. John, who is it?” I heard one ask.
“I ot tell: I fou the door,” was the reply.
“She does look white,” said Hannah.
“As white as cy or death,” was responded. “She will fall: let her sit.”
And indeed head swa I dropped, but a chair receied . I still possessed sehough just now uld not speak.
“Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fete. But she is worn to nothing. How ery thin, and how ery bloodless!”
“A re spectre!”
“Is she ill, or only fashed?”
“Fashed, I think. Hannah, is that lk? Gie it , and a piece of bread.”
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw droopiween and the fire as she bent oer ) broke so bread, dipped it in lk, and put it to lips. Her face was near ne: I saw there ity in it, and I fe syathy in her hurried breathing. In her sile words, too, the sa ballike etion spoke: “Try to eat.”
“Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s hand reed sodden bo and lifted head. I tasted what they offered : feebly at first, eagerly soon.
“Not too ch at first—restrain her,” said the brother; ;bdo..;/bdo“she has had enough.” Ahdrew the ilk and the pte of bread.
“A little re, St. John—look at the aidity in her eyes.”
“ present, sister. Try if she speak now—ask her her na.”
I fe uld speak, and I answered—“My na is Jane Elliott.” Anious as eer to aoid dery, I had before resoled to assu an alias.
“And where do you lie? Where are your friends?”
I was silent.
“ we send for any one you know?”
I shook head.
“What at you gie of yourself?”
Sohow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house, and once was brought face to face with its owners, I fe no longer outcast, agrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off the ndit—to resu natural nner and character. I began once re to know self; and when Mr. St. John dended an at—which at present I was far too weak to render—;bdo藏书网;/bdoI said after a brief pause—
“Sir, I gie you ails to-night.”
“But what, then,” said he, “do you epebsp; to do for you?”
“Nothing,” I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers. Diana took the word—
“Do you an,” she asked, “that we hae now gien you what aid you require? and that we y disss you to the or and the rainy night?”
I looked at her. She had, I thought, a rerkable tenance, instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden ce. Answering her passioe with a sle, I said—“I will trust you. If I were a sterless and stray dog, I know that you would not turn froyour hearth to-night: as it is, I really hae no fear. Do with and for as you like; but ecuse froch durse— breath is short—I feel a spaswhen I speak.” All three sureyed , and all three were silent.
“Hannah,” said Mr. St. John, at st, “let her sit there at present, and ask her no questions; in ten nutes e her the reinder of that lk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the tter oer.”
They withdrew. Very soon one of the dies returned—uld not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing oer as I sat by the genial fire. In an uone she gae so dires to Hannah. Ere long, with the serant’s aid, I tried to unt a staircase; dripping clothes were reed; soon a war dry bed receied . I thanked God—eperienced adst unutterable ehaustion a glow of grateful joy—and slept.
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