Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet were buried in it; rising high on each side，it left only a narrow space for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double，and spread it over me for a coverlet; a low，mossy swell was my pillow.

Thus lodged，I was not，at least at the mencement of the night，cold.

My rest might have been blissful enough，only a sad heart broke it.

It plained of its gaping wounds，its inward bleeding，its riven chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and，impotent as a bird with both wings broken，it still quivered its shattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him.

Worn out with this torture of thought，I rose to my knees. Night was e，and her planets were risen: a safe，still night: too serene for the panionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky，where His worlds wheel their silent course，that we read clearest His infinitude，His omnipotence，His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up，I，with tear-dimmed eyes，saw the mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it was- what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light- I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish，nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits.

Mr. Rochester was safe: he was God"s，and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow.