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The dim room was full of visions.

"Could you decide now?" asked the missionary.

The inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently.

Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! I could resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant as a reed under his kindness.

Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion.

His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated.

"I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and now-come afterwards what would!"

"My prayers are heard!" ejaculated St. John.

He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, almost as if he loved me (I say almost-I knew the difference-for I had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty).

I contended with my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled.

I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that.

"Show me, show me the path!" I entreated of Heaven.

I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge.

All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, were now retired to rest.

The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight.

My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb.

Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities.

The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake.

They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones.

"What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry-

"Jane! Jane! Jane!"-nothing more.

"O God! what is it?" I gasped.

I might have said, "Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room-nor in the house-nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air-nor from under the earth-nor from overhead.

I had heard it-where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being-a known, loved, well-remembered voice-that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.

"I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.

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