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　brother’s　death；　or　the　present　gloomy　state　of　the　family　prospects。　Her　mind　seemed　wholly　taken　up　with　reminiscences　of　past　gaiety；　and　aspirations　after　dissipations　to　e。　She　passed　about　five　minutes　each　day　in　her　mother’s　sick…room；　and　no　more。
Eliza　still　spoke　little：　she　had　evidently　no　time　to　talk。　I　never　saw　a　busier　person　than　she　seemed　to　be；　yet　it　was　difficult　to　say　what　she　did：　or　rather；　to　discover　any　result　of　her　diligence。　She　had　an　alarm　to　call　her　up　early。　I　know　not　how　she　occupied　herself　before　breakfast；　but　after　that　meal　she　divided　her　time　into　regular　portions；　and　each　hour　had　its　allotted　task。　Three　times　a　day　she　studied　a　little　book；　which　I　found；　on　inspection；　was　a　mon　Prayer　Book。　I　asked　her　once　what　was　the　great　attraction　of　that　volume；　and　she　said；　“the　Rubric。”　Three　hours　she　gave　to　stitching；　with　gold　thread；　the　border　of　a　square　crimson　cloth；　almost　large　enough　for　a　carpet。　In　answer　to　my　inquiries　after　the　use　of　this　article；　she　informed　me　it　was　a　covering　for　the　altar　of　a　new　church　lately　erected　near　Gateshead。　Two　hours　she　devoted　to　her　diary；　two　to　working　by　herself　in　the　kitchen…garden；　and　one　to　the　regulation　of　her　accounts。　She　seemed　to　want　no　pany；　no　conversation。　I　believe　she　was　happy　in　her　way：　this　routine　sufficed　for　her；　and　nothing　annoyed　her　so　much　as　the　occurrence　of　any　incident　which　forced　her　to　vary　its　clockwork　regularity。
She　told　me　one　evening；　when　more　disposed　to　be　municative　than　usual；　that　John’s　conduct；　and　the　threatened　ruin　of　the　family；　had　been　a　source　of　profound　affliction　to　her：　but　she　had　now；　she　said；　settled　her　mind；　and　formed　her　resolution。　Her　own　fortune　she　had　taken　care　to　secure；　and　when　her　mother　died—and　it　was　wholly　improbable；　she　tranquilly　remarked；　that　she　should　either　recover　or　linger　long—she　would　execute　a　long…cherished　project：　seek　a　retirement　where　punctual　habits　would　be　permanently　secured　from　disturbance；　and　place　safe　barriers　between　herself　and　a　frivolous　world。　I　asked　if　Georgiana　would　acpany　her。
“Of　course　not。　Georgiana　and　she　had　nothing　in　mon：　they　never　had　had。　She　would　not　be　burdened　with　her　society　for　any　consideration。　Georgiana　should　take　her　own　course；　and　she；　Eliza；　would　take　hers。”
Georgiana；　when　not　unburdening　her　heart　to　me；　spent　most　of　her　time　in　lying　on　the　sofa；　fretting　about　the　dulness　of　the　house；　and　wishing　over　and　over　again　that　her　aunt　Gibson　would　send　her　an　invitation　up　to　town。　“It　would　be　so　much　better；”　she　said；　“if　she　could　only　get　out　of　the　way　for　a　month　or　two；　till　all　was　over。”　I　did　not　ask　what　she　meant　by　“all　being　over；”　but　I　suppose　she　referred　to　the　expected　decease　of　her　mother　and　the　gloomy　sequel　of　funeral　rites。　Eliza　generally　took　no　more　notice　of　her　sister’s　indolence　and　plaints　than　if　no　such　murmuring；　lounging　object　had　been　before　her。　One　day；　however；　as　she　put　away　her　account…book　and　unfolded　her　embroidery；　she　suddenly　took　her　up　thus—
“Georgiana；　a　more　vain　and　absurd　animal　than　you　was　certainly　never　allowed　to　cumber　the　earth。　You　had　no　right　to　be　born；　for　you　make　no　use　of　life。　Instead　of　living　for；　in；　and　with　yourself；　as　a　reasonable　being　ought；　you　seek　only　to　fasten　your　feebleness　on　some　other　person’s　strength：　if　no　one　can　be　found　willing　to　burden　her　or　himself　with　such　a　fat；　weak；　puffy；　useless　thing；　you　cry　out　that　you　are　ill…treated；　neglected；　miserable。　Then；　too；　existence　for　you　must　be　a　scene　of　continual　change　and　excitement；　or　else　the　world　is　a　dungeon：　you　must　be　admired；　you　must　be　courted；　you　must　be　flattered—you　must　have　music；　dancing；　and　society—or　you　languish；　you　die　away。　Have　you　no　sense　to　devise　a　system　which　will　make　you　independent　of　all　efforts；　and　all　wills；　but　your　own？　Take　one　day；　share　it　into　sections；　to　each　section　apportion　its　task：　leave　no　stray　unemployed　quarters　of　an　hour；　ten　minutes；　five　minutes—include　all；　do　each　piece　of　business　in　its　turn　with　method；　with　rigid　regularity。　The　day　will　close　almost　before　you　are　aware　it　has　begun；　and　you　are　indebted　to　no　one　for　helping　you　to　get　rid　of　one　vacant　moment：　you　have　had　to　seek　no　one’s　pany；　conversation；　sympathy；　forbearance；　you　have　lived；　in　short；　as　an　independent　being　ought　to　do。　Take　this　advice：　the　first　and　last　I　shall　offer　you；　then　you　will　not　want　me　or　any　one　else；　happen　what　may。　Neglect　it—go　on　as　heretofore；　craving；　whining；　and　idling—and　suffer　the　results　of　your　idiocy；　however　bad　and　insuperable　they　may　be。　I　tell　you　this　plainly；　and　listen：　for　though　I　shall　no　more　repeat　what　I　am　now　about　to　say；　I　shall　steadily　act　on　it。　After　my　mother’s　death；　I　wash　my　hands　of　you：　from　the　day　her　coffin　is　carried　to　the　vault　in　Gateshead　Church；　you　and　I　will　be　as　separate　as　if　we　had　never　known　each　other。　You　need　not　think　that　because　we　chanced　to　be　born　of　the　same　parents；　I　shall　suffer　you　to　fasten　me　down　by　even　the　feeblest　claim：　I　can　tell　you　this—if　the　whole　human　race；　ourselves　excepted；　were　swept　away；　and　we　two　stood　alone　on　the　earth；　I　would　leave　you　in　the　old　world；　and　betake　myself　to　the　new。”
She　closed　her　lips。
“You　might　have　spared　yourself　the　trouble　of　delivering　that　tirade；”　answered　Georgiana。　“Everybody　knows　you　are　the　most　selfish；　heartless　creature　in　existence：　and　I　know　your　spiteful　hatred　towards　me：　I　have　had　a　specimen　of　it　before　in　the　trick　you　played　me　about　Lord　Edwin　Vere：　you　could　not　bear　me　to　be　raised　above　you；　to　have　a　title；　to　be　received　into　circles　where　you　dare　not　show　your　face；　and　so　you　acted　the　spy　and　informer；　and　ruined　my　prospects　for　ever。”　Georgiana　took　out　her　handkerchief　and　blew　her　nose　for　an　hour　afterwards；　Eliza　sat　cold；　impassable；　and　assiduously　industrious。
True；　generous　feeling　is　made　small　account　of　by　some；　but　here　were　two　natures　rendered；　the　one　intolerably　acrid；　the　other　despicably　savourless　for　the　want　of　it。　Feeling　without　judgment　is　a　washy　draught　indeed；　but　judgment　untempered　by　feeling　is　too　bitter　and　husky　a　morsel　for　human　deglutition。
It　was　a　wet　and　windy　afternoon：　Georgiana　had　fallen　asleep　on　the　sofa　over　the　perusal　of　a　novel；　Eliza　was　gone　to　attend　a　saint’s…day　service　at　the　new　church—for　in　matters　of　religion　she　was　a　rigid　formalist：　no　weather　ever　prevented　the　punctual　discharge　of　what　she　considered　her　devotional　duties；　fair　or　foul；　she　went　to　church　thrice　every　Sunday；　and　as　often　on　week…　days　as　there　were　prayers。
I　bethought　myself　to　go　upstairs　and　see　how　the　dying　woman　sped；　who　lay　there　almost　unheeded：　the　very　servants　paid　her　but　a　remittent　attention：　the　hired　nurse；　being　little　looked　after；　would　slip　out　of　the　room　whenever　she　could。　Bessie　was　faithful；　but　she　had　her　own　family　to　mind；　and　could　only　e　occasionally　to　the　hall。　I　found　the　sick…room　unwatched；　as　I　had　expected：　no　nurse　was　there；　the　patient　lay　still；　and　seemingly　lethargic；　her　livid　face　sunk　in　the　pillows：　the　fire　was　dying　in　the　grate。　I　renewed　the　fuel；　re…arranged　the　bedclothes；　gazed　awhile　on　her　who　could　not　now　gaze　on　me；　and　then　I　moved　away　to　the　window。
The　rain　beat　strongly　against　the　panes；　the　wind　blew　tempestuously：　“One　lies　there；”　I　thought；　“who　will　soon　be　beyond　the　war　of　earthly　elements。　Whither　will　that　spirit—noaterial　tenement—flit　when　at　length　released？”
In　pondering　the　great　mystery；　I　thought　of　Helen　Burns；　recalled　her　dying　words—her　faith—her　doctrine　of　the　equality　of　disembodied　souls。　I　was　still　listening　in　thought　to　her　well…　remembered　tones—still　picturing　her　pale　and　spiritual　aspect；　her　wasted　face　and　sublime　gaze；　as　she　lay　on　her　placid　deathbed；　and　whispered　her　longing　to　be　restored　to　her　divine　Father’s　bosom—　when　a　feeble　voice　murmured　from　the　couch　behind：　“Who　is　that？”
I　knew　Mrs。　Reed　had　not　spoken　for　days：　was　she　reviving？　I　went　up　to　her。
“It　is　I；　Aunt　Reed。”
“Who—I？”　was　her　answer。　“Who　are　you？”　looking　at　me　with　surprise　and　a　sort　of　alarm；　but　still　not　e—where　is　Bessie？”
“She　is　at　the　lodge；　aunt。”
“Aunt；”　she　repeated。　“Who　calls　me　aunt？　You　are　not　one　of　the　Gibsons；　and　yet　I　know　you—that　face；　and　the　eyes　and　forehead；　are　quiet　familiar　to　me：　you　are　like—why；　you　are　like　Jane　Eyre！”
I　said　nothing：　I　was　afraid　of　occasioning　some　shock　by　declaring　my　identity。
“Yet；”　said　she；　“I　am　afraid　it　is　a　mistake：　my　thoughts　deceive　me。　I　wished　to　see　Jane　Eyre；　and　I　fancy　a　likeness　where　none　exists：　besides；　in　eight　years　she　must　be　so　changed。”　I　now　gently　assured　her　that　I　was　the　person　she　supposed　and　desired　me　to　be：　and　seeing　that　I　was　understood；　and　that　her　senses　were　quite　collected；　I　explained　how　Bessie　had　sent　her　husband　to　fetch　me　from　Thornfield。
“I　am　very　ill；　I　know；”　she　said　ere　long。　“I　was　trying　to　turn　myself　a　few　minutes　since；　and　find　I　cannot　move　a　limb。　It　is　as　well　I　should　ease　my　mind　before　I　die：　what　we　think　little　of　in　health；　burdens　us　at　such　an　hour　as　the　present　is　to　me。　Is　the　nurse　here？　or　is　there　no　one　in　the　room　but　you？”
I　assured　her　we　were　alone。
“Well；　I　have　twice　done　you　a　wrong　which　I　regret　now。　One　was　in　breaking　the　promise　which　I　gave　my　husband　to　bring　you　up　as　my　own　child；　the　other—”　she　stopped。　“After　all；　it　is　of　no　great　importance；　perhaps；”　she　murmured　to　herself：　“and　then　I　may　get　better；　and　to　humble　myself　so　to　her　is　painful。”
She　made　an　effort　to　alter　her　position；　but　failed：　her　face　changed；　she　seemed　to　experience　some　inward　sensation—the　precursor；　perhaps；　of　the　last　pang。
“Well；　I　must　get　it　over。　Eternity　is　before　me：　I　had　better　tell　her。—Go　to　my　dressing…case；　open　it；　and　take　out　a　letter　you　will　see　there。”
I　obeyed　her　directions。　“Read　the　letter；”　she　said。
It　was　short；　and　thus　conceived：—
“Madam；—Will　you　have　the　goodness　to　send　me　the　address　of　my　niece；　Jane　Eyre；　and　to　tell　me　how　she　is？　It　is　my　intention　to　write　shortly　and　desire　her　to　e　to　me　at　Madeira。　Providence　has　blessed　my　endeavours　to　secure　a　petency；　and　as　I　am　unmarried　and　childless；　I　wish　to　adopt　her　during　my　life；　and　bequeath　her　at　my　death　whatever　I　may　have　to　leave。—I　am；　Madam；　etc。；　etc。；
“John　Eyre；　Madeira。”
It　was　dated　three　years　back。
“Why　did　I　never　hear　of　this？”　I　asked。
“Because　I　disliked　you　too　fixedly　and　thoroughly　ever　to　lend　a　hand　in　lifting　you　to　prosperity。　I　could　not　forget　your　conduct　to　me；　Jane—the　fury　with　which　you　once　turned　on　me；　the　tone　in　which　you　declared　you　abhorred　me　the　worst　of　anybody　in　the　world；　the　unchildlike　look　and　voice　with　which　you　affirmed　that　the　very　thought　of　me　made　you　sick；　and　asserted　that　I　had　treated　you　with　miserable　cruelty。　I　could　not　forget　my　own　sensations　when　you　thus　started　up　and　poured　out　the　venom　of　your　mind：　I　felt　fear　as　if　an　animal　that　I　had　struck　or　pushed　had　looked　up　at　me　with　human　eyes　and　cursed　me　in　a　man’s　voice。—　Bring　me　some　water！　Oh；　make　haste！”
“Dear　Mrs。　Reed；”　said　I；　as　I　offered　her　the　draught　she　required；　“think　no　more　of　all　this；　let　it　pass　away　from　your　mind。　Forgive　me　for　my　passionate　language：　I　was　a　child　then；　eight；　nine　years　have　passed　since　that　day。”
She　heeded　nothing　of　what　I　said；　but　when　she　had　tasted　the　water　and　drawn　breath；　she　went　on　thus—
“I　tell　you　I　could　not　forget　it；　and　I　took　my　revenge：　for　you　to　be　adopted　by　your　uncle；　and　placed　in　a　state　of　ease　and　fort；　was　what　I　could　not　endure。　I　wrote　to　him；　I　said　I　was　sorry　for　his　disappointment；　but　Jane　Eyre　was　dead：　she　had　died　of　typhus　fever　at　Lowood。　Now　act　as　you　please：　write　and　contradict　my　assertion—expose　my　falsehood　as　soon　as　you　like。　You　were　born；　I　think；　to　be　my　torment：　my　last　hour　is　racked　by　the　recollection　of　a　deed　which；　but　for　you；　I　should　never　have　been　tempted　to　mit。”
“If　you　could　but　be　persuaded　to　think　no　more　of　it；　aunt；　and　to　r