“There, sir, you are redd up and made decent.  Now I’ll leave you:  I have been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am tired.  Good night.”

“Just one word, Jane:  were there only ladies in the house where you have been?”

I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs.  “A good idea!” I thought with glee.  “I see I have the means of fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come.”

Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering from one room to another.  As soon as Mary came down I heard the question:  “Is Miss Eyre here?” Then:  “Which room did you put her into?  Was it dry?  Is she up?  Go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will come down.”

I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast.  Entering the room very softly, I had a view of him before he discovered my presence.  It was mournful, indeed, to witness the subjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity.  He sat in his chair —­ still, but not at rest:  expectant evidently; the lines of now habitual sadness marking his strong features.  His countenance reminded one of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit —­ and alas! it was not himself that could now kindle the lustre of animated expression:  he was dependent on another for that office!  I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the strong man touched my heart to the quick:  still I accosted him with what vivacity I could.

“It is a bright, sunny morning, sir,” I said.  “The rain is over and gone, and there is a tender shining after it:  you shall have a walk soon.”

I had wakened the glow:  his features beamed.

“Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark!  Come to me.  You are not gone:  not vanished?  I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over the wood:  but its song had no music for me, any more than the rising sun had rays.  All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane’s tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one):  all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence.”

The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence; just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor.  But I would not be lachrymose:  I dashed off the salt drops, and busied myself with preparing breakfast.

Most of the morning was spent in the open air.  I led him out of the wet and wild wood into some cheerful fields:  I described to him how brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky.  I sought a seat for him in a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to let him, when seated, place me on his knee.  Why should I, when both he and I were happier near than apart?  Pilot lay beside us:  all was quiet.  He broke out suddenly while clasping me in his arms —