"I cannot think of leaving you，sir，at so late an hour，in this solitary lane，till I see you are fit to mount your horse."

He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before.

"I should think you ought to be at home yourself," said he，"if you have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you e from?"

"From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure，if you wish it: indeed，I am going there to post a letter."

"You live just below- do you mean at that house with the battlements?" pointing to Thornfield Hall，on which the moon cast a hoary gleam，bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods，that，by contrast with the western sky，now seemed one mass of shadow.

"Yes，sir."

"Whose house is it?"

"Mr. Rochester"s."

"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"

"No，I have never seen him."

"He is not resident，then?"

"No."

"Can you tell me where he is?"

"I cannot."

"You are not a servant at the hall，of course. You are-" He stopped，ran his eye over my dress，which，as usual，was quite simple: a black merino cloak，a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady"s-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.

"I am the governess."