"And what goal will you make for when you leave us," she enquired of
me. "_Is_ there anywhere else?" she added, lifting her slim eyebrows.

"I shall put trust in Chance," I replied, "which at least is steadfast
in change. So long as it does not guide me back, I care not how far
forward I go."

"You are right," she answered; "that is a puissant battlecry, here and
hereafter."

Mr. Rochester rose hastily from his chair. "The candles irk me, Jane.
I would like to be alone. Excuse me, sir." He left the room.

Jane lifted a dark curtain and beckoned me to bring the lights. She
sat down before a little piano and desired me to sit beside her. And
while she played, I know not what, but only it seemed old,
well-remembered airs her mood suggested, she asked me many questions.

"And am I indeed only like that poor mad thing you thought Jane Eyre?"
she said, "or did you read between?"

I answered that it was not her words, not even her thoughts, not even
her poetry that was to me Jane Eyre.

"What then is left of me?" she enquired, stooping her eyes over the
keys and smiling darkly. "Am I indeed so evanescent, a wintry wraith?"

"Well," I said, "Jane Eyre is left."

She pressed her lips together. "I see," she said brightly. "But then,