rose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone

nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates retired to rest? I feared

it must be so. In seeking the door, I turned an angle: there shot

out the friendly gleam again, from the lozenged panes of a very

small latticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller

by the growth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whose leaves

clustered thick over the portion of the house wall in which it was

set. The aperture was so screened and narrow, that curtain or

shutter had been deemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and put

aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, I could see all within. I

could see clearly a room with a sanded floor, clean scoured; a dresser

of walnut, with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness

and radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal

table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on

the table; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat

rough-looking, but scrupulously clean, like all about her, was

knitting a stocking.

I noticed these objects cursorily only- in them there was nothing

extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth,

sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two

young, graceful women- ladies in every point- sat, one in a low

rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning

of crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off very fair

necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on

the knee of one girl- in the lap of the other was cushioned a black

cat.

A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Who

were they? They could not be the daughters of the elderly person at

the table; for she looked like a rustic, and they were all delicacy

and cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet,

as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot

call them handsome- they were too pale and grave for the word: as they

each bent over a book, they looked thoughtful almost to severity. A

stand between them supported a second candle and two great volumes, to

which they frequently referred, comparing them, seemingly, with the

smaller books they held in their hands, like people consulting a

dictionary to aid them in the task of translation. This scene was as

silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit

apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall

from the grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner; and I even

fancied I could distinguish the click-click of the woman's

knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voice broke the strange stillness

at last, it was audible enough to me.

'Listen, Diana,' said one of the absorbed students; 'Franz and

old Daniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling a

dream from which he has awakened in terror- listen!' And in a low

voice she read something, of which not one word was intelligible to

me; for it was in an unknown tongue- neither French nor Latin. Whether

it were Greek or German I could not tell.

'That is strong,' she said, when she had finished: 'I relish it.'

The other girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister,

repeated, while she gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read.

At a later day, I knew the language and the book; therefore, I will

here quote the line: though, when I first heard it, it was only like a

stroke on sounding brass to me- conveying no meaning:-

'"Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht." Good!

good!' she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. 'There you

have a dim and mighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is

worth a hundred pages of fustian. "Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale

meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms." I like

it!'

Both were again silent.

'Is there ony country where they talk i' that way?' asked the old

woman, looking up from her knitting.

'Yes, Hannah- a far larger country than England, where they talk in

no other way.'

'Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can understand t'one

t'other: and if either o' ye went there, ye could tell what they said,

I guess?'

'We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all-

for we are not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don't speak

German, and we cannot read it without a dictionary to help us.'

'And what good does it do you?'

'We mean to teach it some time- or at least the elements, as they

say; and then we shall get more money than we do now.'

'Varry like: but give ower studying; ye've done enough for

to-night.'

'I think we have: at least I'm tired. Mary, are you?'

'Mortally: after all, it's tough work fagging away at a language

with no master but a lexicon.'

'It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but glorious

Deutsch. I wonder when St. John will come home.'

'Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a

little gold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah:

will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour?'

The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a

passage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room; she

presently came back.

'Ah, childer!' said she, 'it fair troubles me to go into yond' room

now: it looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set back in a

corner.'

She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave before,

looked sad now.

'But he is in a better place,' continued Hannah: 'we shouldn't wish

him here again. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death nor he

had.'

'You say he never mentioned us?' inquired one of the ladies.

'He hadn't time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was your father.

He had been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify;

and when Mr. St. John asked if he would like either o' ye to be sent

for, he fair laughed at him. He began again with a bit of a

heaviness in his head the next day- that is, a fortnight sin'- and

he went to sleep and niver wakened: he wor a'most stark when your

brother went into t' chamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that's t' last

o' t' old stock- for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to

them 'at's gone; for all your mother wor mich i' your way, and

a'most as book-learned. She wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary: Diana is more

like your father.'

I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant

(for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were

fair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of

distinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker

than the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing

it; Mary's pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana's

duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The clock struck

ten.

'Ye'll want your supper, I am sure,' observed Hannah; 'and so

will Mr. St. John when he comes in.'

And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemed

about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so

intent on watching them, their appearance and conversation had excited

in me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched

position: now it recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate than

ever, it seemed from contrast. And how impossible did it appear to

touch the inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; to make

them believe in the truth of my wants and woes- to induce them to

vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings! As I groped out the door, and

knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea to be a mere

chimera. Hannah opened.

'What do you want?' she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she

surveyed me by the light of the candle she held.

'May I speak to your mistresses?' I said.

'You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do

you come from?'

'I am a stranger.'

'What is your business here at this hour?'

'I want a night's shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel

of bread to eat.'

Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's face.

'I'll give you a piece of bread,' she said, after a pause; 'but we

can't take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely.'

'Do let me speak to your mistresses.'

'No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving

about now; it looks very ill.'

'But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?'

'Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you

don't do wrong, that's all. Here is a penny; now go-'

'A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther.

Don't shut the door:- oh, don't, for God's sake!'

'I must; the rain is driving in-'

'Tell the young ladies. Let me see them-'

'Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you

wouldn't make such a noise. Move off.'

'But I must die if I am turned away.'

'Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that bring

you about folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any

followers- housebreakers or such like- anywhere near, you may tell

them we are not by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and

dogs, and guns.' Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the

door to and bolted it within.

This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering- a throe of true

despair- rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not

another step could I stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groaned- I

wrung my hands- I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death!

Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas, this

isolation- this banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of

hope, but the footing of fortitude was gone- at least for a moment;

but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.

'I can but die,' I said, 'and I believe in God. Let me try to

wait His will in silence.'

These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all

my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain

there- dumb and still.

'All men must die,' said a voice quite close at hand; 'but all

are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as

yours would be if you perished here of want.'

'Who or what speaks?' I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound,

and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A

form was near- what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision

prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud long knock, the newcomer

appealed to the door.

'Is it you, Mr. St. John?' cried Hannah.

'Yes- yes; open quickly.'

'Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is!

Come in- your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe

there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman- I declare

she is not gone yet!- laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off,

I say!'

'Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done

your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was

near, and listened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar

case- I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass

before me into the house.'

With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that

clean, bright kitchen- on the very hearth- trembling, sickening;

conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and

weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old

servant, were all gazing at me.

'St. John, who is it?' I heard one ask.

'I cannot tell: I found her at the door,' was the reply.

'She does look white,' said Hannah.

'As white as clay or death,' was responded. 'She will fall: let her

sit.'

And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I

still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.

'Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some.

But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!'

'A mere spectre!'

'Is she ill, or only famished?'

'Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece

of bread.'

Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me

and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk,

and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in

it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words,

too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: 'Try to eat.'

'Yes- try,' repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden

bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at

first, eagerly soon.

'Not too much at first- restrain her,' said the brother; 'she has

had enough.' And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.

'A little more, St. John- look at the avidity in her eyes.'

'No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now- ask her

her name.'

I felt I could speak, and I answered- 'My name is Jane Elliott.'

Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume an

alias.

'And where do you live? Where are your friends?'

I was silent.

'Can we send for any one you know?'

I shook my head.

'What account can you give of yourself?'

Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house,

and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer

outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off

the mendicant- to resume my natural manner and character. I began once

more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account-

which at present I was far too weak to render- I said after a brief

pause-

'Sir, I can give you no details to-night.'

'But what, then,' said he, 'do you expect me to do for you?'

'Nothing,' I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers.

Diana took the word-

'Do you mean,' she asked, 'that we have now given you what aid

you require? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy

night?'

I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance,

instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage.

Answering her compassionate gaze with a smile, I said- 'I will trust

you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know that you would not

turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do

with me and for me as you like; but excuse me from much discourse-

my breath is short- I feel a spasm when I speak.' All three surveyed

me, and all three were silent.

'Hannah,' said Mr. St. John, at last, 'let her sit there at

present, and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the

remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the

parlour and talk the matter over.'

They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned- I could not

tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by

the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some directions to Hannah.

Ere long, with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my

dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I

thanked God- experiencedamidst unutterable exhaustion a glow of

grateful joy- and slept.