"Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark，though he is blind."

"Give the tray to me; I will carry it in."

I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me，and shut it behind me.

This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low in the grate; and，leaning over it，with his head supported against the high，old-fashioned mantelpiece，appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog，pilot，lay on one side，removed out of the way，and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon.

pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine，and bounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted him，and said softly，"Lie down!" Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to see what the motion was: but as he saw nothing，he returned and sighed.

"Give me the water，Mary," he said.

I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; pilot followed me，still excited.

"What is the matter?" he inquired.

"Down，pilot!" I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips，and seemed to listen: he drank，and put the glass down. "This is you，Mary，is it not?"

"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture，but not seeing where I stood，he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded，trying，as it seemed，to see with those sightless eyes- unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me- speak again!" he ordered，imperiously and aloud.

"Will you have a little more water，sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass," I said.