But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened.Spring drew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winterhad ceased; its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated.My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air ofJanuary, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings ofApril; the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadiantemperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could now endurethe play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day itbegan even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew overthose brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thoughtthat Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brightertraces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. OnThursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and foundstill sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.

I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which thehorizon only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guardedwalls of our garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noblesummits girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; ina bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. Howdifferent had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneaththe iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow!--when mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east windsalong those purple peaks, and rolled down "ing" and holm till theyblended with the frozen fog of the beck! That beck itself was thena torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunder the wood, and senta raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain orwhirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, THAT showed onlyranks of skeletons.

April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of bluesky, placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled upits duration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shookloose its tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm,ash, and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodlandplants sprang up profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties ofmoss filled its hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine outof the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I have seen their palegold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetestlustre. All this I enjoyed often and fully, free, unwatched, andalmost alone: for this unwonted liberty and pleasure there was acause, to which it now becomes my task to advert.

Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak ofit as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of astream? Assuredly, pleasant enough: but whether healthy or not isanother question.

That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring, creptinto the Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowdedschoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed theseminary into an hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of thepupils to receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls layill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The fewwho continued well were allowed almost unlimited license; becausethe medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exerciseto keep them in health: and had it been otherwise, no one hadleisure to watch or restrain them. Miss Temple's whole attentionwas absorbed by the patients: she lived in the sick-room, neverquitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at night. Theteachers were fully occupied with packing up and making othernecessary preparations for the departure of those girls who werefortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing toremove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, wenthome only to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietlyand quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay.

While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death itsfrequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls;while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drugand the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia ofmortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills andbeautiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed withflowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened,tulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the little beds weregay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriarsgave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and apples; andthese fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the inmates ofLowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs andblossoms to put in a coffin.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beautiesof the scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, likegipsies, from morning till night; we did what we liked, went wherewe liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his familynever came near Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinisedinto; the cross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear ofinfection; her successor, who had been matron at the LowtonDispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided withcomparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sickcould eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; whenthere was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened,she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice ofbread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood,where we each chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously.

My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dryfrom the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wadingthrough the water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone wasjust broad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me,at that time my chosen comrade--one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd,observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partlybecause she was witty and original, and partly because she had amanner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knewmore of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear:with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults also shegave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything Isaid. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis; she liked toinform, I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, derivingmuch entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutualintercourse.

And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend thesesweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I soworthless as to have grown tired of her pare society? Surely theMary Arm Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my firstacquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, andreciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in;while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to givethose who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of farhigher things.

True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defectivebeing, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tiredof Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment ofattachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that everanimated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at alltimes and under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet andfaithful friendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritationnever troubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks shehad been removed from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs.She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house withthe fever patients; for her complaint was consumption, not typhus:and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild,which time and care would be sure to alleviate.

I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice comingdownstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by MissTemple into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was not allowedto go and speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom window,and then not distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at adistance under the verandah.

One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very latewith Mary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselvesfrom the others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way,and had to ask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived,who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast inthe wood. When we got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, whichwe knew to be the surgeon's, was standing at the garden door. MaryAnn remarked that she supposed some one must be very ill, as Mr.Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. She went intothe house; I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden ahandful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and which I fearedwould wither if I left them till the morning. This done, I lingeredyet a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell; itwas such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the still glowingwest promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow; the moonrose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting these thingsand enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as ithad never done before:-

"How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger ofdying! This world is pleasant--it would be dreary to be called fromit, and to have to go who knows where?"

And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend whathad been infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for thefirst time it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancingbehind, on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomedgulf: it felt the one point where it stood--the present; all therest was formless cloud and vacant depth; and it shuddered at thethought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos. While ponderingthis new idea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out, andwith him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse anddepart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her.

"How is Helen Burns?"

"Very poorly," was the answer.

"Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?"

"Yes."

"And what does he say about her?"

"He says she'll not be here long."

This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have onlyconveyed the notion that she was about to be removed toNorthumberland, to her own home. I should not have suspected thatit meant she was dying; but I knew instantly now! It opened clearon my comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days inthis world, and that she was going to be taken to the region ofspirits, if such region there were. I experienced a shock ofhorror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire--a necessity tosee her; and I asked in what room she lay.

"She is in Miss Temple's room," said the nurse.

"May I go up and speak to her?"

"Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to comein; you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling."

The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrancewhich led to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nineo'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.

It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I--nothaving been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfectsilence of the dormitory, that my companions were all wrapt inprofound repose--rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress,and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, and set off in questof Miss Temple's room. It was quite at the other end of the house;but I knew my way; and the light of the unclouded summer moon,entering here and there at passage windows, enabled me to find itwithout difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned mewhen I came near the fever room: and I passed its door quickly,fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. Idreaded being discovered and sent back; for I MUST see Helen,--Imust embrace her before she died,--I must give her one last kiss,exchange with her one last word.

Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the housebelow, and succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, twodoors, I reached another flight of steps; these I mounted, and thenjust opposite to me was Miss Temple's room. A light shone throughthe keyhole and from under the door; a profound stillness pervadedthe vicinity. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar; probablyto admit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness.Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses--soul andsenses quivering with keen throes--I put it back and looked in. Myeye sought Helen, and feared to find death.

Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its whitecurtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a formunder the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurseI had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; anunsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not tobe seen: I knew afterwards that she had been called to a deliriouspatient in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the cribside: my hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before Iwithdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.

"Helen!" I whispered softly, "are you awake?"

She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale,wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that myfear was instantly dissipated.

"Can it be you, Jane?" she asked, in her own gentle voice.

"Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; they are mistaken: shecould not speak and look so calmly if she were."

I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and hercheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but shesmiled as of old.

"Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heardit strike some minutes since."

"I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I couldnot sleep till I had spoken to you."

"You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably."

"Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?"

"Yes; to my long home--my last home."

"No, no, Helen!" I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour mytears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake thenurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then shewhispered -

"Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself withmy quilt."

I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her.After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering -

"I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you mustbe sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We allmust die one day, and the illness which is removing me is notpainful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave noone to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is latelymarried, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape greatsufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very wellin the world: I should have been continually at fault."

"But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?"

"I believe; I have faith: I am going to God."

"Where is God? What is God?"

"My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I relyimplicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: Icount the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restoreme to Him, reveal Him to me."

"You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven,and that our souls can get to it when we die?"

"I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I canresign my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is myfather; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me."

"And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?"

"You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by thesame mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane."

Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. "Where is thatregion? Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round Helen;she seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let hergo; I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, inthe sweetest tone -

"How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me alittle; I feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; Ilike to have you near me."

"I'll stay with you, DEAR Helen: no one shall take me way."

"Are you warm, darling?"

"Yes."

"Good-night, Jane."

"Good-night, Helen."

She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.

When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I lookedup; I was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying methrough the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimandedfor leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; noexplanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or twoafterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own roomat dawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face against HelenBurns's shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helenwas--dead.

Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years afterher death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a greymarble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word"Resurgam."