in　the　little　crib；　my　face　against　Helen　Burns’s　shoulder；　my　arms　round　her　neck。　I　was　asleep；　and　Helen　was—dead。

Her　grave　is　in　Brocklebridge　churchyard：　for　fifteen　years　after　her　death　it　was　only　covered　by　a　grassy　mound；　but　now　a　grey　marble　tablet　marks　the　spot；　inscribed　with　her　name；　and　the　word　“Resurgam。”

Chapter　10

Hitherto　I　have　recorded　in　detail　the　events　of　my　insignificant　existence：　to　the　first　ten　years　of　my　life　I　have　given　almost　as　many　chapters。　But　this　is　not　to　be　a　regular　autobiography。　I　am　only　bound　to　invoke　Memory　where　I　know　her　responses　will　possess　some　degree　of　interest；　therefore　I　now　pass　a　space　of　eight　years　almost　in　silence：　a　few　lines　only　are　necessary　to　keep　up　the　links　of　connection。

When　the　typhus　fever　had　fulfilled　its　mission　of　devastation　at　Lowood；　it　gradually　disappeared　from　thence；　but　not　till　its　virulence　and　the　number　of　its　victims　had　drawn　public　attention　on　the　school。　Inquiry　was　made　into　the　origin　of　the　scourge；　and　by　degrees　various　facts　came　out　which　excited　public　indignation　in　a　high　degree。　The　unhealthy　nature　of　the　site；　the　quantity　and　quality　of　the　children’s　food；　the　brackish；　fetid　water　used　in　its　preparation；　the　pupils’　wretched　clothing　and　acmodations—all　these　things　were　discovered；　and　the　discovery　produced　a　result　mortifying　to　Mr。　Brocklehurst；　but　beneficial　to　the　institution。

Several　wealthy　and　benevolent　indiv