Here then I was in the third story, fastened into one of its mystic cells—night around me—a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and hands—a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door; yes—that was appalling—the rest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me. I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly countenance—these blue, still lips, forbidden to n of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and cabinet opposite—whose front, divided into twelve panels, bore, in grim design the heads of the twelve apostles, each inclosed in its separate panel as in a frame while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ. According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here or glanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John's long hair that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the pane, and seemed gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor—of Satan himself—in his subordinate form. Amid all this, I had to listen as well as watch—to listen for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But since Mr. Rochester's visit,

Here then I was in the third story, fastened into one of its mystic cells—night around me—a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and hands—a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door; yes—that was appalling—the rest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me. I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly countenance—these blue, still lips, forbidden to unclose—these eyes, now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and cabinet opposite—whose front, divided into twelve panels, bore, in grim design the heads of the twelve apostles, each inclosed in its separate panel as in a frame while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ. According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here or glanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John's long hair that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the pane, and seemed gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor—of Satan himself—in his subordinate form. Amid all this, I had to listen as well as watch—to listen for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But since Mr. Rochester's visit,

whence the bracelet had been washed or torn. The second picture contained for fore-ground only the dim peak of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanted as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight; rising into the sky, was a woman's shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection, like moonlight, the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star. The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar wintry sky; a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head, a colossal head, inclined toward the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower