and　moors　of　Morton！）　met　my　eye　like　the　lineaments　of　a　once　familiar　face。　Yes；　I　knew　the　character　of　this　landscape：　I　was　sure　we　were　near　my　bourne。

“How　far　is　Thornfield　Hall　from　here？”　I　asked　of　the　ostler。

“Just　two　miles；　ma’am；　across　the　fields。”

“My　journey　is　closed；”　I　thought　to　myself。　I　got　out　of　the　coach；　gave　a　box　I　had　into　the　ostler’s　charge；　to　be　kept　till　I　called　for　it；　paid　my　fare；　satisfied　the　coachman；　and　was　going：　the　brightening　day　gleamed　on　the　sign　of　the　inn；　and　I　read　in　gilt　letters；　“The　Rochester　Arms。”　My　heart　leapt　up：　I　was　already　on　my　master’s　very　lands。　It　fell　again：　the　thought　struck　it：—

“Your　master　himself　may　be　beyond　the　British　Channel；　for　aught　you　know：　and　then；　if　he　is　at　Thornfield　Hall；　towards　which　you　hasten；　who　besides　him　is　there？　His　lunatic　wife：　and　you　have　nothing　to　do　with　him：　you　dare　not　speak　to　him　or　seek　his　presence。　You　have　lost　your　labour—you　had　better　go　no　farther；”　urged　the　monitor。　“Ask　information　of　the　people　at　the　inn；　they　can　give　you　all　you　seek：　they　can　solve　your　doubts　at　once。　Go　up　to　that　man；　and　inquire　if　Mr。　Rochester　be　at　home。”

The　suggestion　was　sensible；　and　yet　I　could　not　force　myself　to　act　on　it。　I　so　dreaded　a　reply　that　would　crush　me　with　despair。　To　prolong　doubt　was　to　prolong　hope。　I　might　yet　once　more　see　the　Hall　under　the　ray　of　her　star。　There　was　the　stile　before　me—the　very　fields　throug