fenclosedground,fromwhichthewoodsweptawayinasemicircle.Therewerenoflowers,nogarden-beds;onlyabroadgravel-walkgirdlingagrass-plat,andthissetintheheavyframeoftheforest.Thehousepresewopointedgablesinitsfront;thewindowswerelattidnarrow:thefrontdoorwasnarrowtoo,oepleduptoit.Thewholelooked,asthehostoftheRochesterArmshadsaid,“quiteadesolatespot.”Itwasasstillasachuraweek-day:thepatteringrainontheforestleaveswastheonlysoundaudibleinitsviage.

    “therebelifehere?”Iasked.

    Yes,lifeofsomekindtherewas;forIheardamovement—thatnarrowfront-doorwasunclosing,andsomeshapewasabouttoissuefromthegrange.

    Itopenedslowly:afigurecameoutintothetwilightandstoodoep;amanwithoutahat:hestretchedforthhishandasiftofeelwhetheritrained.Duskasitwas,Ihadreisedhim—itwasmymaster,EdwardFairfaxRochester,andnoother.

    Istayedmystep,almostmybreath,andstoodtowatchhim—toexaminehim,myselfunseen,andalas!tohiminvisible.Itwasasuddeing,andoneinwhichrapturetwellincheckbypain.Ihadnodifficultyirainingmyvoiexclamation,mystepfromhastyadvance.

    Hisformwasofthesamestrongandstalwarttourasever:hisportwasstillerect,hisheirwasstillravenblaorwerehisfeaturesalteredorsunk:notinoneyear’sspace,byanysorrow,couldhisathleticstrengthbequelledorhisvigorousprimeblighted.ButinhistenanceIsawage:thatlookeddesperateandbrooding—thatremindedmeofsedaeredwildbeastorbird,dangeroustoapproahissullehecagedeagle,whosegedeyescrueltyhasextinguished,mightlookaslookedthatsightlessSamson.

    And,reader,doyouthinkIfearedhiminhisblindfe