back to get his mad wife out of her cell.  And then they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was waving her arms and shouting till they could hear her a mile off.  She was a big woman, and had long, black hair; and we could see it streaming against the flames as she stood.  We saw Mr. Rochester approach her and call ‘Bertha!’ And then, ma’am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute lay dead, smashed on the pavement.”

“Were any other lives lost?”

“No.  Perhaps it would have been better if there had.  Poor Mr. Edward!  He is stone-blind.”

I had dreaded he was mad.

“As he came down the great staircase it fell, and he was taken out of the ruins with one eye knocked out and one hand so crushed that the surgeon had to amputate it directly.  The other eye inflamed, and he lost the sight of that also.”

“Where does he live now?”

“At Ferndean, a manor house on a farm he has—­quite a desolate spot.  Old John and his wife are with him; he would have none else.”

To Ferndean I came just ere dusk, walking the last mile.  As I approached, the narrow front door of the grange slowly opened, and a figure came out into the twilight; a man without a hat.  He stretched forth his hand to feel whether it rained.  It was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester.

He groped his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.  I now drew near and knocked, and John’s wife opened for me.

“Mary,” I said, “how are you?”

She started as if she had seen a ghost.  I calmed her, and followed her into the kitchen, where I explained in a few words that I should stay for the night, and that John must fetch my trunk from the turnpike house.  At this moment the parlour bell rang.

Mary proceeded to fill a glass with water and place it on a tray, together with candles.

“Give the tray to me; I will carry it in.”

The old dog Pilot pricked up his ears as I entered the room; then he jumped up with a yelp, and bounded towards me, almost knocking the tray from my hands.

“What is the matter?” inquired Mr. Rochester.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture.  “Who is this?” he demanded imperiously.

“Will you have a little more water, sir?  I spilt half of what was in the glass,” I said.

“What is it?  Who speaks?”

“Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here,” I answered.

He groped, and, arresting his wandering hand, I prisoned it in both mine.

“Her very fingers!  Her small, slight fingers!  Is it Jane—­Jane Eyre?” he cried.

“My dear master, I am Jane Eyre.  I have found you out; I am come back to you!”

* * * * *

Shirley