I　proceeded：　at　last　my　way　opened；　the　trees　thinned　a　little；　presently　I　beheld　a　railing；　then　the　house—scarce；　by　this　dim　light；　distinguishable　from　the　trees；　so　dank　and　green　were　its　decaying　walls。　Entering　a　portal；　fastened　only　by　a　latch；　I　stood　amidst　a　space　of　enclosed　ground；　from　which　the　wood　swept　away　in　a　semicircle。　There　were　no　flowers；　no　garden…beds；　only　a　broad　gravel…walk　girdling　a　grass…plat；　and　this　set　in　the　heavy　frame　of　the　forest。　The　house　presented　two　pointed　gables　in　its　front；　the　windows　were　latticed　and　narrow：　the　front　door　was　narrow　too；　one　step　led　up　to　it。　The　whole　looked；　as　the　host　of　the　Rochester　Arms　had　said；　“quite　a　desolate　spot。”　It　was　as　still　as　a　church　on　a　week…day：　the　pattering　rain　on　the　forest　leaves　was　the　only　sound　audible　in　its　vicinage。

“Can　there　be　life　here？”　I　asked。

Yes；　life　of　some　kind　there　was；　for　I　heard　a　movement—that　narrow　front…door　was　unclosing；　and　some　shape　was　about　to　issue　from　the　grange。

It　opened　slowly：　a　figure　came　out　into　the　twilight　and　stood　on　the　step；　a　man　without　a　hat：　he　stretched　forth　his　hand　as　if　to　feel　whether　it　rained。　Dusk　as　it　was；　I　had　recognised　him—it　was　my　master；　Edward　Fairfax　Rochester；　and　no　other。

I　stayed　my　step；　almost　my　breath；　and　stood　to　watch　him—to　examine　him；　myself　unseen；　and　alas！　to　him　invisible。　It　was　a　sudden　meeting；　and　one　in　which　rapture　was　kept　well　in　check　by