They are making hay，too，in Thornfield meadows: or rather，the labourers are just quitting their work，and returning home with their rakes on their shoulders，now，at the hour I arrive. I have but a field or two to traverse，and then I shall cross the road and reach the gates. How full the hedges are of roses! But I have no time to gather any; I want to be at the house. I passed a tall briar，shooting leafy and flowery branches across the path; I see the narrow stile with stone steps; and I see- Mr. Rochester sitting there，a book and a pencil in his hand; he is writing.

Well，he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a moment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not think I should tremble in this way when I saw him，or lose my voice or the power of motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I can stir: I need not make an absolute fool of myself. I know another way to the house. It does not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me.

"Hillo!" he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil. "There you are! e on，if you please."

I suppose I do e on; though in what fashion I know not; being scarcely cognisant of my movements，and solicitous only to appear calm; and，above all，to control the working muscles of my face- which I feel rebel insolently against my will，and struggle to express what I had resolved to conceal. But I have a veil- it is down: I may make shift yet to behave with decent posure.