I did not need to be guided to the well-known room，to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the table，for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table，the arm-chair，and the footstool，at which I had a hundred times been sentenced to kneel，to ask pardon for offences by me unmitted. I looked into a certain corner near，half expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there，waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows.

Well did I remember Mrs. Reed"s face，and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate，and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings，and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries- to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity.

The well-known face was there: stern，relentless as ever- there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt，and the somewhat raised，imperious，despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! and how the recollection of childhood"s terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me.

"Is this Jane Eyre?" she said.

"Yes，Aunt Reed. How are you，dear aunt?"