The feeling was not like an electric shock，but it was quite as sharp，as strange，as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor，from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones.

"What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing，but I heard a voice somewhere cry-

"Jane! Jane! Jane!"- nothing more.

"O God! what is it?" I gasped.

I might have said，"Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room- nor in the house- nor in the garden; it did not e out of the air- nor from under the earth- nor from overhead. I had heard it- where，or whence，for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being- a known，loved，well-remembered voice- that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe，wildly，eerily，urgently.

"I am ing!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh，I will e!" I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.

"Where are you?" I exclaimed.

The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back- "Where are you?" I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush.

"Down superstition!" I mented，as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. "This is not thy deception，nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was roused，and did- no miracle- but her best."