Presentiments are strange tery to  found t presentiments in my life, because I range ones of my o (for instance, betant, long-absent, ives asserting, notanding tion, ty of to  ture h man.

    tle girl, only six years old, I one nigo Mart t s a little c to dream of crouble, eito one’s self or one’s kin. t  of my memory,  a circumstance immediately follo t day Bessie  for o ttle sister.

    Of late I en recalled t; for during t , imes cs er. It  nestled close to me, and no ran from me; but ion evinced,  it  failed not for seven successive nigo meet me t I entered the land of slumber.

    I did not like teration of one idea—trange recurrence of one image, and I greime approac ernoon of tairs by a message t some one ed me in Mrs. Fairfax’s room. On repairing ting for me, leman’s servant:  h a crape band.

    “I daresay you ered; “but my name is Leaven: I lived coac Gates or nine years since, and I live till.”

    “O! o give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana’s bay pony. And o Bessie?”

    “Yes, Miss: my  me anottle one about thriving.”

    “And are t t?”

    “I am sorry I can’t give you better ne present—in great trouble.”

    “I  oo looked do t and replied—

    “Mr. Joerday  his chambers in London.”

    “Mr. John?”

    “Yes.”

    “And ?”

    “ is not a common mis to strange ways, and h was shocking.”

    “I  doing well.”

    “Doing e amongst t men and t o debt and into jail:  t as soon as urned to s.  strong: t fooled o Gates ted missis to give up all to ravagance; so  back again, and t ne hey say he killed himself.”

    I : tful. Robert Leaven resumed—

    “Missis  of ime: s very stout, but  strong ; and ty e breaking ion about Mr. Jo came too suddenly: it brougroke. S speaking; but last tuesday ster: sed to say somet making signs to my  erday morning,  Bessie understood s last s tc to speak to  sure  sold Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised to send for you. t it off at first; but tless, and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so many times, t at last ted. I left Gateserday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I so take you back o- morrow morning.”

    “Yes, Robert, I s seems to me t I ougo go.”

    “I too, Miss. Bessie said s refuse: but I suppose you  off?”

    “Yes; and I  nos’ o ttentions of Jo in searcer.

    in any of t in tables, or to tened: ter, Miss Ingram, to disturb so interesting a party; my errand,  defer, so I approacer  Miss Ingram’s side. Surned as I dre me ily: o demand, “ can ture  noempted to order me a—it riking: sed in ion ated pride did not loy lineaments.

    “Does t person  you?” ser; and Mr. Rocer turned to see rations—the room.

    “ell, Jane?” ed  t.

    “If you please, sir, I  leave of absence for a wo.”

    “ to do?—wo go?”

    “to see a sick lady w for me.”

    “ sick lady?—where does she live?”

    “At Gateshead; in—shire.”

    “-s is a  sends for people to see  distance?”

    “her name is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.”

    “Reed of Gatesesrate.”

    “It is his widow, sir.”

    “And h her? how do you know her?”

    “Mr. Reed her.”

    “told me t before: you always said you ions.”

    “None t would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and  me off.”

    “hy?”

    “Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.”

    “But Reed left c alking of a Reed of Gateserday, oioning a Georgiana Reed of ty a season or two ago in London.”

    “Jooo, sir: o ted suicide. t it brougic attack.”

    “And w good can you do o see an old lady w you off.”

    “Yes, sir, but t is long ago; and : I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now.”

    “ay?”

    “As s a time as possible, sir.”

    “Promise me only to stay a week—”

    “I ter not pass my .”

    “At all events you  be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence h her?”

    “Oainly return if all be well.”

    “And ravel a hundred miles alone.”

    “No, sir, s her coachman.”

    “A person to be trusted?”

    “Yes, sir, en years in the family.”

    Mr. Rocer meditated. “o go?”

    “Early to-morrow morning, sir.”

    “ell, you must  travel  money, and I daresay you  muc. he world, Jane?” he asked, smiling.

    I dre my purse; a meagre t o  as if its scantiness amused - book: “e; it y pounds, and  fifteen. I told him I had no change.

    “I don’t  c. take your wages.”

    I declined accepting more t first; ting something, he said—

    “Rig! Better not give you all noy pounds. ten; is it not plenty?”

    “Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.”

    “Come back for it, ty pounds.”

    “Mr. Rocer, I may as ion anotter of business to you y.”

    “Matter of business? I am curious to .”

    “You  you are going sly to be married?”

    “Yes; hen?”

    “In t case, sir, Adèle ougo go to scy of it.”

    “to get  of my bride’s oo empically? tion; not a doubt of it. Adèle, as you say, must go to sc marcraigo—the devil?”

    “I , sir; but I must seek anotuation somewhere.”

    “In course!” ortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous.  me some minutes.

    “And old Madam Reed, or ters, ed by you to seek a place, I suppose?”

    “No, sir; I am not on sucerms ives as ify me in asking favours of t I sise.”

    “You s!”  your peril you advertise! I en pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I’ve a use for it.”

    “And so urned, putting my  spare t.”

    “Little niggard!” said ! Give me five pounds, Jane.”

    “Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.”

    “Just let me look at the cash.”

    “No, sir; you are not to be trusted.”

    “Jane!”

    “Sir?”

    “Promise me one thing.”

    “I’ll promise you anyt I to perform.”

    “Not to advertise: and to trust t of a situation to me. I’ll find you one in time.”

    “I so do, sir, if you, in your turn,  I and Adèle s of ters it.”

    “Very . You go to- morrohen?”

    “Yes, sir; early.”

    “So ter dinner?”

    “No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.”

    “t bid good-bye for a little while?”

    “I suppose so, sir.”

    “And  ceremony of parting, Jane? teac quite up to it.”

    “they prefer.”

    “t.”

    “Fare.”

    “ must I say?”

    “the same, if you like, sir.”

    “Fare; is t all?”

    “Yes?”

    “It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I stle addition to te. If one sance; but no—t  content me eithan say Farewell, Jane?”

    “It is enougy word as in many.”

    “Very likely; but it is blank and cool—‘Farewell.’”

    “o stand  t door?” I asked myself; “I  to commence my packing.” ted,  anothe morning.

    I reac Gates five o’clock in ternoon of t of May: I stepped in to t : tal le ains; tless; te and fire-irons  clear. Bessie sat on t-born, and Robert and er played quietly in a corner.

    “Bless you!—I kneered.

    “Yes, Bessie,” said I, after I rust I am not too late. ill, I hope.”

    “Yes, sed tor says s; but hinks she will finally recover.”

    “ioned me lately?”

    “Salking of you only t sen minutes ago, ernoon, and  six or seven. ill you rest yourself h you?”

    Robert ered, and Bessie laid  to aking off my bonnet and ea; for sired. I o accept ality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.

    Old times cro back on me as I cling about— setting out tea-tray  cting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, betle Robert or Jane an occasional tap or pus as so give me in former days. Bessie ained emper as  and good looks.

    tea ready, I o approacable; but so sit still, quite in ory tones. I must be served at ttle round stand e of toast, absolutely as so accommodate me ely purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.

    Sed to kno sort of a person tress e a gentleman; and t reated me kindly, and I ent. t on to describe to  ely been staying at to tails Bessie listened erest: the kind she relished.

    In sucion an ored to me my bonnet, amp;c., and, accompanied by ted t e and embittered —a sense of outla of reprobation—to seek t bourne so far aile roof nos ful yet; and I  an ac. I still felt as a  I experienced firmer trust in myself and my ooo, e ment extinguished.

    “You so t-room first,” said Bessie, as shere.”

    In anot I  apartment. ticle of furniture looking just as it did on t introduced to Mr. Brockle: tood upon still covered t t I could distinguisisravels and ts ranged just above. te objects  c tered past recognition.

    tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram—very too, ic in ed by treme plainness of a straiged, black, stuff dress, a starcemples, and t of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. t sure race little resemblance to  elongated and colourless visage.

    tainly Georgiana: but not tures, languised yello its fas from er’s—so muc looked as stylisanical.

    In eacers trait of ter ’s Cairngorm eye: t younger girl our of jale softened, but still imparting an indescribable o tenance otuous and buxom.

    Boto ing  voice,  a smile; and t do me. Georgiana added to  my journey, ttered in ratone: and accompanied by sundry side-glances t measured me from o foot—noraversing trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies ting you kno t actually saying tain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, noncone, express fully timents on t,  committing tive rudeness in word or deed.

    A sneer,  or open,  po once possessed: as I sat beto find  under total neglect of tic attentions of t mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. t ;  feirred in me so mucent te and exquisite ed t o inflict or besto ther for good or bad.

    “ Georgiana,  to bridle at t address, as if it ed liberty.

    “Mrs. Reed? Aremely poorly: I doubt if you can see o-night.”

    “If,” said I, “you  step upstairs and tell o you.”

    Georgiana almost started, and sicular  defer attending to ely necessary.”

    “Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,” remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I  step out to Bessie—ain  to-nig, and co take furt ofore been my  alo so-day, I so quit Gates morning; no o me all at once t t , and I must stay ill ster—or dead: as to ers’ pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed to sold or o my c t Bessie on the landing.

    “Missis is awake,” said sold  us see if she will know you.”

    I did not need to be guided to to  or reprimand in former days. I ened before Bessie; I softly opened t stood on table, for it ting dark. t four-post bed oilet- table, tstool, at enced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, ing to see tline of a once dreaded sco lurk ting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or sains and leant over the high-piled pillows.

    ell did I remember Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly soug is a  time quells tings of rage and aversion. I  tterness and e, and I came back to ion t of rut sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries—to be reconciled and clasp y.

    tern, relentless as ever—t peculiar eye  raised, imperious, despotic eyebroraced its  I stooped down and kissed  me.

    “Is this Jane Eyre?” she said.

    “Yes, Aunt Reed. ?”

    I  I  it no sin to forget and break t vo:  t moment rue pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipated. Mrs. Reed took urning  t  once t oo tenderness, indissoluble to tears—t so consider me bad to t; because to believe me good ion.

    I felt pain, and t ire; and t a determination to subdue o be ress in spite boture and ears  as in co t a co t dohe pillow.

    “You sent for me,” I said, “and I am  is my intention to stay till I see  on.”

    “Oers?”

    “Yes.”

    “ell, you may tell to stay till I can talk some to-nig is too late, and I y in recalling t to say—let me see—”

    tterance told lessly, sing on a corner of t, fixed it doated.

    “Sit up!” said s annoy me . Are you Jane Eyre?”

    “I am Jane Eyre.”

    “I rouble  co be left on my ion, and arts of temper, and inual, unnatural cs! I declare salked to me once like someto get  did t Lo t die: but I said she did—I wish she had died!”

    “A strange wise her so?”

    “I o er, and a great favourite  like a simpleton. reated o put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I ed it t time I set my eyes on it—a sickly, s cradle all nig screaming ily like any ot ; and o nurse it and notice it as if it iced  t age. ry to make my co ttle beggar: t bear it, and  illness,  brouginually to  an o keep ture. I  of a  all resemble : Joe a Gibson. Oormenting me ters for money? I o give ting poor. I must send a of t it off. I can never submit to do t—yet o get on? terest of mortgages. Jo by sful—I feel ashamed for him when I see him.”

    Sting muced. “I tter leave o Bessie, he bed.

    “Per sen talks in towards nighe morning she is calmer.”

    I rose. “Stop!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, “to say. ens me—inually tens me imes t I see   o a strange pass: I roubles.  is to be done? o be had?”

    Bessie noo persuade o take a sedative draugy. Soon after, Mrs. Reed greo a dozing state. I t her.

    More ten days elapsed before I ion inued eitor forbade everyte ime, I got on as  first. Eliza  ing, and scarcely utter a o me or er. Georgiana er nonsense to ake no notice of me. But I ermined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I  my draerials h.

    Provided s of paper, I used to take a seat apart from tctes, representing any scene t arily to sself in ting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea bets disk; a group of reeds and er-flags, and a naiad’s us-flo of tting in a , under a horn- bloom

    One morning I fell to sketc sort of a face it o be, I did not care or knoook a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and  foreline of visage: t contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it ures. Strongly-marked al eyebro be traced under t brourally, a raigrils; t do: of course, some black ty ufted on temples, and  to t, because t careful raced long and sombre; trous and large. “Good! but not quite t, as I surveyed t: “t more force and spirit;” and I s migly—a ouc did it signify t turned t it; I smiled at tent.

    “Is t a portrait of some one you kno it s. Of course, I lied: it , a very faitation of Mr. Rocer. But  to o any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. t s “an ugly man.” t my skill. I offered to sketcraits; and eacurn, sat for a pencil outline. to contribute a er-colour dra  once into good  tion: sion of t er s in London tion sed— ttention s s of titled conquest sernoon and evening ts  conversations ed, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in s, a volume of a novel of fas day improvised by . tions o day: t range sed eito  gloomy state of ts. aken up  gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. S five minutes eacher’s sick-room, and no more.

    Eliza still spoke little: sly no time to talk. I never sao be; yet it  to say  of o call  , but after t meal sime into regular portions, and eacs allotted task. times a day sudied a little book,  attraction of t volume, and so stitc large enoug. In anso my inquiries after ticle, s ar of a need near Gateso o ion of s. So  no company; no conversation. I believe sine sufficed for  s clocky.

    Sold me one evening, ive t Jo, and tened ruin of tion to  stled ion. une saken care to secure; and  se a long-c: seek a retirement ly secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.

    “Of course not. Georgiana and s be burdened y for any consideration. Georgiana sake ake hers.”

    Georgiana, o me, spent most of ime in lying on tting about t  Gibson ion up to to er,” s out of till all  ask  I suppose so ted decease of es. Eliza generally took no more notice of er’s indolence and complaints t  away -book and unfolded ook hus—

    “Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal tainly never alloo cumber t to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and , you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some otrengto burden ,  t you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. too, existence for you must be a scene of continual cement, or else t be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered—you must y—or you languiso devise a system s, and all  your oake one day; s into sections; to eacion apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an en minutes, five minutes—include all; do eacs turn y. t before you are a ed to no one for o get rid of one vacant moment: you o seek no one’s company, conversation, sympat, as an independent being ougo do. take t and last I s  me or any one else,  may. Neglect it—go on as ofore, craving, en: for t  to say, I seadily act on it. After my moto t in Gatese as if  because s, I so fasten me do claim: I can tell you ted,  aood alone on take myself to the new.”

    She closed her lips.

    “You migrouble of delivering t tirade,” ans selfisless creature in existence: and I knoeful red torick you played me about Lord Ed bear me to be raised above you, to itle, to be received into circles s for ever.” Georgiana took out er cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.

    true, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but ures rendered, tolerably acrid, t of it. Feeling  judgment is a  judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and ition.

    It  and ernoon: Georgiana o attend a saint’s-day service at tters of religion s: no ed tual disc sional duties; fair or foul, s to cen on here were prayers.

    I bet myself to go upstairs and see  uns paid  a remittent attention: ttle looked after,  of t so mind, and could only come occasionally to tced: no nurse ient lay still, and seemingly lete. I rene noo the window.

    t strongly against tempestuously: “One lies t, “—noruggling to quit its material tenement—flit h released?”

    In pondering t mystery, I t of rine of ty of disembodied souls. I ill listening in t to ones—still picturing ual aspect, ed face and sublime gaze, as so be restored to ?”

    I kneo her.

    “It is I, Aunt Reed.”

    “ me  of alarm, but still not e a stranger to me—where is Bessie?”

    “S t.”

    “Aunt,” sed. “? You are not one of t I kno face, and t familiar to me: you are like—why, you are like Jane Eyre!”

    I said notity.

    “Yet,” said s is a mistake: my ts deceive me. I o be: and seeing t I ood, and t e collected, I explained  o fetchornfield.

    “I am very ill, I knoo turn myself a fees since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as tle of in  suc is to me. Is t you?”

    I assured her we were alone.

    “ell, I o bring you up as my oer all, it is of no great importance, pero  better; and to o her is painful.”

    S to alter ion, but failed: o experience some inion—t pang.

    “ell, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I ter tell o my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you here.”

    I obeyed ions. “Read tter,” she said.

    It hus conceived:—

    “Madam,—ill you o send me to tell me  is my intention to e sly and desire o come to me at Madeira. Providence o secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and co adopt  my deatever I may o leave.—I am, Madam, etc., etc.,

    “John Eyre, Madeira.”

    It ed three years back.

    “his?” I asked.

    “Because I disliked you too fixedly and to lend a ing you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane—turned on me; tone in  t of me made you sick, and asserted t I reated you y. I could not forget my oions ed up and poured out t fear as if an animal t I ruck or pus me er! Oe!”

    “Dear Mrs. Reed,” said I, as I offered  s it pass ae language: I was a c, nine years  day.”

    S I said; but ed ter and dra on thus—

    “I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort,  endure. I e to ment, but Jane Eyre  as you please: e and contradict my assertion—expose my falseo be my torment: my last ion of a deed ed to commit.”

    “If you could but be persuaded to t, aunt, and to regard me h kindness and forgiveness”

    “You ion,” said so t impossible to understand: ient and quiescent under any treatment, and in tent all fire and violence, I can never comprehend.”

    “My disposition is not so bad as you te, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little co love you if you ly to be reconciled to you no.”

    I approaco  touc. Ser. As I laid ed ouche glazing eyes shunned my gaze.

    “Love me, te me, as you  last, “you  peace.”

    Poor, suffering  oo late for o make no to cual frame of mind: living, sed me—dying, s e me still.

    tered, and Bessie follo lingered o see some sign of amity: but s relapsing into stupor; nor did  t nig present to close ers. to tell us t morning t all ime laid out. Eliza and I  to look at  out into loud retc and active frame, rigid and still:  s cold lid; rong traits  trange and solemn object  corpse to me. I gazed on it , not, notying, or  inspire; only a grating anguis my loss—and a sombre tearless dismay at th in such a form.

    Eliza surveyed  calmly. After a silence of some minutes she observed—

    “ititution so a good old age: ened by trouble.” And tricted ant: as it passed a t a tear.