en　asleep　on　the　flowers　covering　it；　wakened　in　a　southern　clime；　amongst　the　luxuries　of　a　pleasure　villa：　to　have　been　now　living　in　France；　Mr。　Rochester’s　mistress；　delirious　with　his　love　half　my　time—for　he　would—oh；　yes；　he　would　have　loved　me　well　for　a　while。　He　did　love　me—no　one　will　ever　love　me　so　again。　I　shall　never　more　know　the　sweet　homage　given　to　beauty；　youth；　and　grace—for　never　to　any　one　else　shall　I　seem　to　possess　these　charms。　He　was　fond　and　proud　of　me—it　is　what　no　man　besides　will　ever　be。—But　where　am　I　wandering；　and　what　am　I　saying；　and　above　all；　feeling？　Whether　is　it　better；　I　ask；　to　be　a　slave　in　a　fool’s　paradise　at　Marseilles—fevered　with　delusive　bliss　one　hour—suffocating　with　the　bitterest　tears　of　remorse　and　shame　the　next—or　to　be　a　village…schoolmistress；　free　and　honest；　in　a　breezy　mountain　nook　in　the　healthy　heart　of　England？

Yes；　I　feel　now　that　I　was　right　when　I　adhered　to　principle　and　law；　and　scorned　and　crushed　the　insane　promptings　of　a　frenzied　moment。　God　directed　me　to　a　correct　choice：　I　thank　His　providence　for　the　guidance！

Having　brought　my　eventide　musings　to　this　point；　I　rose；　went　to　my　door；　and　looked　at　the　sunset　of　the　harvest…day；　and　at　the　quiet　fields　before　my　cottage；　which；　with　the　school；　was　distant　half　a　mile　from　the　village。　The　birds　were　singing　their　last　strains—

“The　air　was　mild；　the　dew　was　balm。”

While　I　looked；　I　thought　myself　happy；　and　was　surpri