"I"ll tell you，if I can，the idea，the picture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried，as you see，in a heavy wood，where sound falls dull，and dies unreverberating. "Where are you?" seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in some wild，lone scene，I and Jane were meeting. In spirit，I believe we must have met. You no doubt were，at that hour，in unconscious sleep，Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to fort mine; for those were your accents-as certain as I live- they were yours!"

Reader，it was on Monday night- near midnight- that I too had received the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester"s narrative，but made no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be municated or discussed. If I told anything，my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my hearer: and that mind，yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom，needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural. I kept these things then，and pondered them in my heart.

"You cannot now wonder," continued my master，"that when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last night，I had difficulty in believing you any other than a mere voice and vision，something that would melt to silence and annihilation，as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had melted before. Now，I thank God! I know it to be otherwise.

Yes，I thank God!"