ly 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.”