A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open door of

which the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese.

I stopped and said "Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry." He cast

on me a glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thick

slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not think

I was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken a

fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his

house, I sat down and ate it.

I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the

wood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my rest

broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders

passed near me more than once, and I had again and again to change

my quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me.

Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet.

Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as

before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I

starved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I

saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig

trough. "Will you give me that?" I asked.

She stared at me. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "there is a woman wants

me to give her these porridge."

"Well lass," replied a voice within, "give it her if she's a beggar.

T pig doesn't want it."

The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured it

ravenously.

As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path,

which I had been pursuing an hour or more.

"My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy. "I feel I

cannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night?

While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched

ground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me?

But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger,

faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation--this total

prostration of hope. In all likelihood, though, I should die before

morning. And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of

death? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I

know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of want

and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh,

Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid!--direct me!"




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