A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy.  Summer approached; Diana tried to cheer me:  she said I looked ill, and wished to accompany me to the sea-side.  This St. John opposed; he said I did not want dissipation, I wanted employment; my present life was too purposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying deficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee, and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment:  and I, like a fool, never thought of resisting him —­ I could not resist him.

One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the ebb was occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment.  Hannah had told me in the morning there was a letter for me, and when I went down to take it, almost certain that the long-looked for tidings were vouchsafed me at last, I found only an unimportant note from Mr. Briggs on business.  The bitter check had wrung from me some tears; and now, as I sat poring over the crabbed characters and flourishing tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again.

St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this my voice failed me:  words were lost in sobs.  He and I were the only occupants of the parlour:  Diana was practising her music in the drawing-room, Mary was gardening —­ it was a very fine May day, clear, sunny, and breezy.  My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he question me as to its cause; he only said —

“We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed.”  And while I smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and patient, leaning on his desk, and looking like a physician watching with the eye of science an expected and fully understood crisis in a patient’s malady.  Having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, and muttered something about not being very well that morning, I resumed my task, and succeeded in completing it.  St. John put away my books and his, locked his desk, and said —

“Now, Jane, you shall take a walk; and with me.”

“I will call Diana and Mary.”

“No; I want only one companion this morning, and that must be you.  Put on your things; go out by the kitchen-door:  take the road towards the head of Marsh Glen:  I will join you in a moment.”

I know no medium:  I never in my life have known any medium in my dealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own, between absolute submission and determined revolt.  I have always faithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting, sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither present circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me to mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John’s directions; and in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side by side with him.