The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty:  as it waned into dusk, I began to feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead:  we ceased to pass through towns; the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the horizon:  as twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long after night had overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.

Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered when the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open, and a person like a servant was standing at it:  I saw her face and dress by the light of the lamps.

“Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?” she asked.  I answered “Yes,” and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach instantly drove away.

I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of the coach:  Gathering my faculties, I looked about me.  Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide:  she shut and locked it behind her.  There was now visible a house or houses —­ for the building spread far —­ with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.

I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked round; there was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture:  it was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough.  I was puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed close behind.

The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance was grave, her bearing erect.

“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her candle down on the table.  She considered me attentively for a minute or two, then further added —

“She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired:  are you tired?” she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.

“A little, ma’am.”

“And hungry too, no doubt:  let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Miss Miller.  Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to school, my little girl?”

I explained to her that I had no parents.  She inquired how long they had been dead:  then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little:  then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying, “She hoped I should be a good child,” dismissed me along with Miss Miller.