pectacle　of　desolation　I　had　just　left　prepared　me　in　a　measure　for　a　tale　of　misery。　The　host　was　a　respectable…looking；　middle…aged　man。

“You　know　Thornfield　Hall；　of　course？”　I　managed　to　say　at　last。

“Yes；　ma’am；　I　lived　there　once。”

“Did　you？”　Not　in　my　time；　I　thought：　you　are　a　stranger　to　me。

“I　was　the　late　Mr。　Rochester’s　butler；”　he　added。

The　late！　I　seem　to　have　received；　with　full　force；　the　blow　I　had　been　trying　to　evade。

“The　late！”　gasped。　“Is　he　dead？”

“I　mean　the　present　gentleman；　Mr。　Edward’s　father；”　he　explained。　I　breathed　again：　my　blood　resumed　its　flow。　Fully　assured　by　these　words　that　Mr。　Edward—my　Mr。　Rochester　（God　bless　him；　wherever　he　was！）—was　at　least　alive：　was；　in　short；　“the　present　gentleman。”　Gladdening　words！　It　seemed　I　could　hear　all　that　was　to　e—whatever　the　disclosures　might　be—with　parative　tranquillity。　Since　he　was　not　in　the　grave；　I　could　bear；　I　thought；　to　learn　that　he　was　at　the　Antipodes。

“Is　Mr。　Rochester　living　at　Thornfield　Hall　now？”　I　asked；　knowing；　of　course；　what　the　answer　would　be；　but　yet　desirous　of　deferring　the　direct　question　as　to　where　he　really　was。

“No；　ma’am—oh；　no！　No　one　is　living　there。　I　suppose　you　are　a　stranger　in　these　parts；　or　you　would　have　heard　what　happened　last　autumn；—Thornfield　Hall　is　quite　a　ruin：　it　was　burnt　down　just　about　harvest…time。　A　dreadful　calamity！　such　an　immense　quantity　of　valuable　property　destroyed