Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has setme down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther forthe sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling inthe world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. Atthis moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of thepocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there itremains, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.

Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillarset up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be moreobvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from itssummit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to theinscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. Fromthe well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I havelighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged withmountain: this I see. There are great moors behind and on eachhand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valleyat my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see nopassengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, andsouth--white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and theheather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chancetraveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangerswould wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post,evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could giveno answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Nota tie holds me to human society at this moment--not a charm or hopecalls me where my fellow-creatures are--none that saw me would havea kind thought or a good wish for me. I have no relative but theuniversal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.

I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeplyfurrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth;I turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granitecrag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks of moorwere about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that.

Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vaguedread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman orpoacher might discover me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, Ilooked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled,I imagined it a man. Finding my apprehensions unfounded, however,and calmed by the deep silence that reigned as evening declined atnightfall, I took confidence. As yet I had not thought; I had onlylistened, watched, dreaded; now I regained the faculty ofreflection.

What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when Icould do nothing and go nowhere!--when a long way must yet bemeasured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach humanhabitation--when cold charity must be entreated before I could get alodging: reluctant sympathy importuned, almost certain repulseincurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my wantsrelieved!

I touched the heath, it was dry, and yet warm with the beat of thesummer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly startwinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but withpropitious softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to mebenign and good; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I,who from man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult,clung to her with filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would beher guest, as I was her child: my mother would lodge me withoutmoney and without price. I had one morsel of bread yet: theremnant of a roll I had bought in a town we passed through at noonwith a stray penny--my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaminghere and there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a handfuland ate them with the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if notsatisfied, appeased by this hermit's meal. I said my eveningprayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch.

Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feetwere buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrowspace for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, andspread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow.Thus lodged, I was not, at least--at the commencement of the night,cold.

My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it.It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its rivenchords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned himwith bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and,impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered itsshattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him.

Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Nightwas come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: tooserene for the companionship of fear. We know that God iseverywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His worksare on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in theunclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course,that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, Hisomnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester.Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way.Remembering what it was--what countless systems there swept spacelike a soft trace of light--I felt the might and strength of God.Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced Igrew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls ittreasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Lifewas also the Saviour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe; he wasGod's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to thebreast of the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow.

But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the littlebirds had left their nests; long after bees had come in the sweetprime of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried--when the long morning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filledearth and sky--I got up, and I looked round me.

What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreadingmoor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it.I saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweetbilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or lizard,that I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here.But I was a human being, and had a human being's wants: I must notlinger where there was nothing to supply them. I rose; I lookedback at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished butthis--that my Maker had that night thought good to require my soulof me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved by deathfrom further conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, andmingle in peace with the soil of this wilderness. Life, however,was yet in my possession, with all its requirements, and pains, andresponsibilities. The burden must be carried; the want providedfor; the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled. I setout.

Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, nowfervent and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decide mychoice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had nearly doneenough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almostoverpowered me--might relax this forced action, and, sitting down ona stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy that cloggedheart and limb--I heard a bell chime--a church bell.

I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst theromantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note anhour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my righthand was full of pasture-fields, and cornfields, and wood; and aglittering stream ran zig-zag through the varied shades of green,the mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea.Recalled by the rumbling of wheels to the road before me, I saw aheavily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and not far beyond weretwo cows and their drover. Human life and human labour were near.I must struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil like the rest.

About two o'clock p.m. I entered the village. At the bottom of itsone street there was a little shop with some cakes of bread in thewindow. I coveted a cake of bread. With that refreshment I couldperhaps regain a degree of energy: without it, it would bedifficult to proceed. The wish to have some strength and somevigour returned to me as soon as I was amongst my fellow-beings. Ifelt it would be degrading to faint with hunger on the causeway of ahamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in exchange for one ofthese rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchief tiedround my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how men andwomen in extremities of destitution proceeded. I did not knowwhether either of these articles would be accepted: probably theywould not; but I must try.

I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as she supposed, she came forward withcivility. How could she serve me? I was seized with shame: mytongue would not utter the request I had prepared. I dared notoffer her the half-worn gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides,I felt it would be absurd. I only begged permission to sit down amoment, as I was tired. Disappointed in the expectation of acustomer, she coolly acceded to my request. She pointed to a seat;I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious howunseasonable such a manifestation would be, I restrained it. Soon Iasked her "if there were any dressmaker or plain-workwoman in thevillage?"

"Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employment for."

I reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought face toface with Necessity. I stood in the position of one without aresource, without a friend, without a coin. I must do something.What? I must apply somewhere. Where?

"Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servant waswanted?"

"Nay; she couldn't say."

"What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of thepeople do?"

"Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver'sneedle-factory, and at the foundry."

"Did Mr. Oliver employ women?"

"Nay; it was men's work."

"And what do the women do?"

"I knawn't," was the answer. "Some does one thing, and someanother. Poor folk mun get on as they can."

She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claim hadI to importune her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair wasevidently wanted. I took leave.

I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to theright hand and to the left; but I could discover no pretext, nor seean inducement to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet, goingsometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an hour ormore. Much exhausted, and suffering greatly now for want of food, Iturned aside into a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere manyminutes had elapsed, I was again on my feet, however, and againsearching something--a resource, or at least an informant. A prettylittle house stood at the top of the lane, with a garden before it,exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. Whatbusiness had I to approach the white door or touch the glitteringknocker? In what way could it possibly be the interest of theinhabitants of that dwelling to serve me? Yet I drew near andknocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired young woman opened thedoor. In such a voice as might be expected from a hopeless heartand fainting frame--a voice wretchedly low and faltering--I asked ifa servant was wanted here?

"No," said she; "we do not keep a servant."

"Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?" Icontinued. "I am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place. Iwant some work: no matter what."

But it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a place forme: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have appeared mycharacter, position, tale. She shook her head, she "was sorry shecould give me no information," and the white door closed, quitegently and civilly: but it shut me out. If she had held it open alittle longer, I believe I should have begged a piece of bread; forI was now brought low.

I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides, noprospect of aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviateto a wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade tooffer inviting shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed withnature's cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes where therewas a chance of food. Solitude would be no solitude--rest no rest--while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side.

I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again Iwandered away: always repelled by the consciousness of having noclaim to ask--no right to expect interest in my isolated lot.Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about like alost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spirebefore me: I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, and in themiddle of a garden, stood a well-built though small house, which Ihad no doubt was the parsonage. I remembered that strangers whoarrive at a place where they have no friends, and who wantemployment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for introduction andaid. It is the clergyman's function to help--at least with advice--those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to have somethinglike a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my courage, andgathering my feeble remains of strength, I pushed on. I reached thehouse, and knocked at the kitchen-door. An old woman opened: Iasked was this the parsonage?

"Yes."

"Was the clergyman in?"

"No."

"Would he be in soon?"

"No, he was gone from home."

"To a distance?"

"Not so far--happen three mile. He had been called away by thesudden death of his father: he was at Marsh End now, and would verylikely stay there a fortnight longer."

"Was there any lady of the house?"

"Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper;" and ofher, reader, I could not bear to ask the relief for want of which Iwas sinking; I could not yet beg; and again I crawled away.

Once more I took off my handkerchief--once more I thought of thecakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but onemouthful to allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I turned myface again to the village; I found the shop again, and I went in;and though others were there besides the woman I ventured therequest--"Would she give me a roll for this handkerchief?"

She looked at me with evident suspicion: "Nay, she never sold stuffi' that way."

Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused. "Howcould she tell where I had got the handkerchief?" she said.

"Would she take my gloves?"

"No! what could she do with them?"

Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some saythere is enjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; butat this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which Iallude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering,form too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on.I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was what was tobe expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary beggar isfrequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitablyso. To be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose businesswas it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, that ofpersons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothingabout my character. And as to the woman who would not take myhandkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if theoffer appeared to her sinister or the exchange unprofitable. Let mecondense now. I am sick of the subject.

A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open door ofwhich the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese.I stopped and said -

"Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry." He caston me a glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thickslice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not thinkI was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken afancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of hishouse, I sat down and ate it.

I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in thewood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my restbroken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruderspassed near me more than once, and I had again and again to changemy quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me.Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet.Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; asbefore, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, Istarved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage Isaw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pigtrough. "Will you give me that?" I asked.

She stared at me. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "there is a woman wantsme to give her these porridge."

"Well lass," replied a voice within, "give it her if she's a beggar.T pig doesn't want it."

The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured itravenously.

As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path,which I had been pursuing an hour or more.

"My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy. "I feel Icannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night?While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenchedground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me?But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger,faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation--this totalprostration of hope. In all likelihood, though, I should die beforemorning. And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect ofdeath? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because Iknow, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of wantand cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh,Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid!--direct me!"

My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape. I saw Ihad strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight. Thevery cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross-ways and by-paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland; andnow, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heathfrom which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and thedusky hill.

"Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequentedroad," I reflected. "And far better that crows and ravens--if anyravens there be in these regions--should pick my flesh from mybones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin andmoulder in a pauper's grave."

To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only tofind a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden, ifnot secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level. Itshowed no variation but of tint: green, where rush and mossovergrew the marshes; black, where the dry soil bore only heath.Dark as it was getting, I could still see these changes, though butas mere alternations of light and shade; for colour had faded withthe daylight.

My eye still roved over the sullen swell and along the moor-edge,vanishing amidst the wildest scenery, when at one dim point, far inamong the marshes and the ridges, a light sprang up. "That is anignis fatuus," was my first thought; and I expected it would soonvanish. It burnt on, however, quite steadily, neither receding noradvancing. "Is it, then, a bonfire just kindled?" I questioned. Iwatched to see whether it would spread: but no; as it did notdiminish, so it did not enlarge. "It may be a candle in a house," Ithen conjectured; "but if so, I can never reach it. It is much toofar away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? Ishould but knock at the door to have it shut in my face."

And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground.I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and overme, and died moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wetting meafresh to the skin. Could I but have stiffened to the still frost--the friendly numbness of death--it might have pelted on; I shouldnot have felt it; but my yet living flesh shuddered at its chillinginfluence. I rose ere long.

The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain.I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towardsit. It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog, which wouldhave been impassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking evennow, in the height of summer. Here I fell twice; but as often Irose and rallied my faculties. This light was my forlorn hope: Imust gain it.

Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. Iapproached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to thelight, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a clump oftrees--firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of thecharacter of their forms and foliage through the gloom. My starvanished as I drew near: some obstacle had intervened between meand it. I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before me: Idiscriminated the rough stones of a low wall--above it, somethinglike palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on.Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate--a wicket;it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a sablebush-holly or yew.

Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a houserose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding lightshone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates retired torest? I feared it must be so. In seeking the door, I turned anangle: there shot out the friendly gleam again, from the lozengedpanes of a very small latticed window, within a foot of the ground,made still smaller by the growth of ivy or some other creepingplant, whose leaves clustered thick over the portion of the housewall in which it was set. The aperture was so screened and narrow,that curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary; and when Istooped down and put aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, Icould see all within. I could see clearly a room with a sandedfloor, clean scoured; a dresser of walnut, with pewter plates rangedin rows, reflecting the redness and radiance of a glowing peat-fire.I could see a clock, a white deal table, some chairs. The candle,whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on the table; and by its lightan elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously clean,like all about her, was knitting a stocking.

I noticed these objects cursorily only--in them there was nothingextraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth,sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Twoyoung, graceful women--ladies in every point--sat, one in a lowrocking-chair, the other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourningof crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off veryfair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massivehead on the knee of one girl--in the lap of the other was cushioneda black cat.

A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Whowere they? They could not be the daughters of the elderly person atthe table; for she looked like a rustic, and they were all delicacyand cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet,as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every lineament. Icannot call them handsome--they were too pale and grave for theword: as they each bent over a book, they looked thoughtful almostto severity. A stand between them supported a second candle and twogreat volumes, to which they frequently referred, comparing them,seemingly, with the smaller books they held in their hands, likepeople consulting a dictionary to aid them in the task oftranslation. This scene was as silent as if all the figures hadbeen shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was it,I could hear the cinders fall from the grate, the clock tick in itsobscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguish the click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voicebroke the strange stillness at last, it was audible enough to me.

"Listen, Diana," said one of the absorbed students; "Franz and oldDaniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dreamfrom which he has awakened in terror--listen!" And in a low voiceshe read something, of which not one word was intelligible to me;for it was in an unknown tongue--neither French nor Latin. Whetherit were Greek or German I could not tell.

"That is strong," she said, when she had finished: "I relish it."The other girl, 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 later day, I knew the language and the book; therefore, I willhere quote the line: though, when I first heard it, it was onlylike a stroke on sounding brass to me--conveying no meaning:-

"'Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.' Good!good!" she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. "Thereyou have a dim and mighty archangel fitly set before you! The lineis worth a hundred pages of fustian. 'Ich wage die Gedanken in derSchale meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.'I like it!"

Both were again silent.

"Is there ony country where they talk i' that way?" asked the oldwoman, looking up from her knitting.

"Yes, Hannah--a far larger country than England, where they talk inno other way."

"Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can understand t' onet'other: and if either o' ye went there, ye could tell what theysaid, I guess?"

"We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all--for we are not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don't speakGerman, and we cannot read it without a dictionary to help us."

"And what good does it do you?"

"We mean to teach it some time--or at least the elements, as theysay; and then we shall get more money than we do now."

"Varry like: but give ower studying; ye've done enough for to-night."

"I think we have: at least I'm tired. Mary, are you?"

"Mortally: after all, it's tough work fagging away at a languagewith no master but a lexicon."

"It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but gloriousDeutsch. I wonder when St. John will come home."

"Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at alittle gold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah:will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour?"

The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw apassage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room; shepresently came back.

"Ah, childer!" said she, "it fair troubles me to go into yond' roomnow: it looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set back in acorner."

She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave before,looked sad now.

"But he is in a better place," continued Hannah: "we shouldn't wishhim here again. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death norhe had."

"You say he never mentioned us?" inquired one of the ladies.

"He hadn't time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, 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 sentfor, he fair laughed at him. He began again with a bit of aheaviness in his head the next day--that is, a fortnight sin'--andhe went to sleep and niver wakened: he wor a'most stark when yourbrother went into t' chamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that's t'last o' t' old stock--for ye and Mr. St. John is like of differentsoart to them 'at's gone; for all your mother wor mich i' your way,and a'most as book-learned. She wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary: Dianais more like your father."

I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant(for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both werefair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full ofdistinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shadedarker than the other, and there was a difference in their style ofwearing it; Mary's pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth:Diana's duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. Theclock struck ten.

"Ye'll want your supper, I am sure," observed Hannah; "and so willMr. St. John when he comes in."

And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemedabout to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been sointent on watching them, their appearance and conversation hadexcited in me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my ownwretched position: now it recurred to me. More desolate, moredesperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. And how impossibledid it appear to touch the inmates of this house with concern on mybehalf; to make them believe in the truth of my wants and woes--toinduce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings! As I groped outthe door, and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea tobe a mere chimera. Hannah opened.

"What do you want?" she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as shesurveyed me by the light of the candle she held.

"May I speak to your mistresses?" I said.

"You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do youcome from?"

"I am a stranger."

"What is your business here at this hour?"

"I want a night's shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morselof bread to eat."

Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's face."I'll give you a piece of bread," she said, after a pause; "but wecan't take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely."

"Do let me speak to your mistresses."

"No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be rovingabout now; it looks very ill."

"But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?"

"Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind youdon't do wrong, that's all. Here is a penny; now go--"

"A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther.Don't shut the door:- oh, don't, for God's sake!"

"I must; the rain is driving in--"

"Tell the young ladies. Let me see them- "

"Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or youwouldn't make such a noise. Move off."

"But I must die if I am turned away."

"Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that bring youabout folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any followers--housebreakers or such like--anywhere near, you may tell them we arenot by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and dogs, andguns." Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door toand bolted it within.

This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering--a throe of truedespair--rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; notanother step could I stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groaned--I wrung my hands--I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre ofdeath! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas, thisisolation--this banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor ofhope, but the footing of fortitude was gone--at least for a moment;but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.

"I can but die," I said, "and I believe in God. Let me try to waitHis will in silence."

These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back allmy misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remainthere--dumb and still.

"All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all arenot condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yourswould be if you perished here of want."

"Who or what speaks?" I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound,and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. Aform was near--what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebledvision prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud long knock,the new-comer appealed to the door.

"Is it you, Mr. St. John?" cried Hannah.

"Yes--yes; open quickly."

"Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is!Come in--your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believethere are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman--I declareshe is not gone yet!--laid down there. Get up! for shame! Moveoff, I say!"

"Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have doneyour duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I wasnear, and listened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiarcase--I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and passbefore me into the house."

With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean,bright kitchen--on the very hearth--trembling, sickening; consciousof an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten.The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, wereall gazing at me.

"St. John, who is it?" I heard one ask.

"I cannot tell: I found her at the door," was the reply.

"She does look white," said Hannah.

"As white as clay or death," was responded. "She will fall: lether sit."

And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. Istill possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.

"Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. Butshe is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!"

"A mere spectre!"

"Is she ill, or only famished?"

"Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a pieceof bread."

Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between meand the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it inmilk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw therewas pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. Inher simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: "Try toeat."

"Yes--try," repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my soddenbonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feeblyat first, eagerly soon.

"Not too much at first--restrain her," said the brother; "she hashad enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate ofbread.

"A little more, St. John--look at the avidity in her eyes."

"No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now--ask her hername."

I felt I could speak, and I answered--"My name is Jane Elliott."Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assumean ALIAS.

"And where do you live? Where are your friends?"

I was silent.

"Can we send for any one you know?"

I shook my head.

"What account can you give of yourself?"

Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house,and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longeroutcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to putoff the mendicant--to resume my natural manner and character. Ibegan once more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded anaccount--which at present I was far too weak to render--I said aftera brief pause -

"Sir, I can give you no details to-night."

"But what, then," said he, "do you expect me to do for you?"

"Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers.Diana took the word -

"Do you mean," she asked, "that we have now given you what aid yourequire? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainynight?"

I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance,instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage.Answering her compassionate gate with a smile, I said--"I will trustyou. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know that you wouldnot turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, I really have nofear. Do with me and for me as you like; but excuse me from muchdiscourse--my breath is short--I feel a spasm when I speak." Allthree surveyed me, and all three were silent.

"Hannah," said Mr. St. John, at last, "let her sit there at present,and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her theremainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go intothe parlour and talk the matter over."

They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned--I could nottell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I satby the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some directions toHannah. Ere long, with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount astaircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bedreceived me. I thanked God--experienced amidst unutterableexhaustion a glow of grateful joy--and slept.