"Can there be life here?" I asked.

Yes，life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement- that narrow front-door was unclosing，and some shape was about to issue from the grange.

It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood on the step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained. Dusk as it was，I had recognised him- it was my master，Edward Fairfax Rochester，and no other.

I stayed my step，almost my breath，and stood to watch him- to examine him，myself unseen，and alas! to him invisible. It was a sudden meeting，and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had no difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation，my step from hasty advance.

His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his port was still erect，his hair was still raven black; nor were his features altered or sunk: not in one year"s space，by any sorrow，could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted.