A NEW chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time，reader，you must fancy you see a room in the George Inn at Millcote，with such large figured papering on the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet，such furniture，such ornaments on the mantel-piece，such prints，including a portrait of George the Third，and another of the prince of Wales，and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling，and by that of an excellent fire，near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my muff and umbrella lie on the table，and I am warming away the numbness and chill contracted by sixteen hours" exposure to the rawness of an October day: I left Lowton at four o"clock A.M.，and the Millcote town clock is now just striking eight.

Reader，though I look fortably acmodated，I am not very tranquil in my mind. I thought when the coach stopped here there would be some one to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the wooden steps the "boots" placed for my convenience，expecting to hear my name pronounced，and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible;

and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre，I was answered in the negative: so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a private room: and here I am waiting,while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling my thoughts.

It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quite alone in the world，cut adrift from every connection，uncertain whether the port to which it is bound can be reached，and prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has quitted.

The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation，the glow of pride warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant when half an hour elapsed and still I was alone.