Preses are strahings! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three bined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at preses in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his in) whose ws baffle mortal prehension. And signs, fht we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.
When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one』s self or one』s kin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled this saying and this i; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had nht with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, ain, dabbling its hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing ohe : now it led close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I ehe land of slumber.
I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from panionship with this baby- phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was oernoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax』s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman』s servant: he was dressed in deep m, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.
「I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,」 he said, rising as I entered; 「but my name is Leaven: I lived an with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still.」
「Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Geiana』s bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?」
「Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since—we have three now—and both mother and child are thriving.」
「And are the family well at the house, Robert?」
「I am sorry I 』t give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present—irouble.」
「I hope no one is dead,」 I said, glang at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied—
「Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London.」
「Mr. John?」
「Yes.」
「And how does his mother bear it?」
「Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a ishap: his life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself up te ways, and his death was shog.」
「I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.」
「Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst wome into debt and into jail: his mother helpe