<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
<p>Five o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January,
when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly
dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had washed my face,
and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just setting, whose rays
streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I was to leave Gateshead that
day by a coach which passed the lodge gates at six <small>A.M.</small> Bessie
was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she now
proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can eat when excited with the
thoughts of a journey; nor could I. Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take a
few spoonfuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up
some biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with
my pelisse and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the
nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go
in and bid Missis good-bye?”</p>
<p>“No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to
supper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins either;
and she told me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to
speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly.”</p>
<p>“What did you say, Miss?”</p>
<p>“Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to
the wall.”</p>
<p>“That was wrong, Miss Jane.”</p>
<p>“It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she has
been my foe.”</p>
<p>“O Miss Jane! don’t say so!”</p>
<p>“Good-bye to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and
went out at the front door.</p>
<p>The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose light
glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was
the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There was
a light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it, we found the
porter’s wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had been carried
down the evening before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes
of six, and shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels
announced the coming coach; I went to the door and watched its lamps approach
rapidly through the gloom.</p>
<p>“Is she going by herself?” asked the porter’s wife.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And how far is it?”</p>
<p>“Fifty miles.”</p>
<p>“What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far
alone.”</p>
<p>The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and its top
laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk was
hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I clung with kisses.</p>
<p>“Be sure and take good care of her,” cried she to the guard, as he
lifted me into the inside.</p>
<p>“Ay, ay!” was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice
exclaimed “All right,” and on we drove. Thus was I severed from
Bessie and Gateshead; thus whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed,
remote and mysterious regions.</p>
<p>I remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed to me of
a preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over hundreds of miles
of road. We passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one, the
coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the passengers alighted to dine.
I was carried into an inn, where the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but,
as I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace at each
end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red gallery high up
against the wall filled with musical instruments. Here I walked about for a
long time, feeling very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one coming
in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having
frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside chronicles. At last the
guard returned; once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector mounted
his own seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the
“stony street” of L——.</p>
<p>The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I began to
feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to pass
through towns; the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the
horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long
after night had overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst
trees.</p>
<p>Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered when
the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open, and a person
like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of the
lamps.</p>
<p>“Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?” she asked. I
answered “Yes,” and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down,
and the coach instantly drove away.</p>
<p>I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of the
coach: gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness
filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door
open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked
it behind her. There was now visible a house or houses—for the building
spread far—with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a
broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant
led me through a passage into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.</p>
<p>I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked round; there
was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by intervals,
papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was a parlour,
not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable
enough. I was puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when
the door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed
close behind.</p>
<p>The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large
forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance was
grave, her bearing erect.</p>
<p>“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her
candle down on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two,
then further added—</p>
<p>“She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you
tired?” she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.</p>
<p>“A little, ma’am.”</p>
<p>“And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to
bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to
school, my little girl?”</p>
<p>I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been
dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, and
sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying,
“She hoped I should be a good child,” dismissed me along with Miss
Miller.</p>
<p>The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me
appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, and
air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn
countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had always a multiplicity
of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was,
an under-teacher. Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment, from
passage to passage, of a large and irregular building; till, emerging from the
total and somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we had
traversed, we came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a wide,
long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on each of which burnt a
pair of candles, and seated all round on benches, a congregation of girls of
every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, their
number to me appeared countless, though not in reality exceeding eighty; they
were uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long
holland pinafores. It was the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over
their to-morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the combined result
of their whispered repetitions.</p>
<p>Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking up to
the top of the long room she cried out—</p>
<p>“Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!”</p>
<p>Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered the
books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command—</p>
<p>“Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!”</p>
<p>The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray, with
portions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a pitcher of
water and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were handed round; those
who liked took a draught of the water, the mug being common to all. When
it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food,
excitement and fatigue rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however,
that it was a thin oaten cake shared into fragments.</p>
<p>The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed off, two
and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I scarcely noticed
what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw
it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow; she
helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced at the long rows of beds, each
of which was quickly filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the single light
was extinguished, and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.</p>
<p>The night passed rapidly: I was too tired even to dream; I only once awoke to
hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in torrents, and to be
sensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my side. When I again unclosed
my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dressing; day had not
yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I too rose
reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for
shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur
soon, as there was but one basin to six girls, on the stands down the middle of
the room. Again the bell rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that
order descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here
prayers were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out—</p>
<p>“Form classes!”</p>
<p>A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller repeatedly
exclaimed, “Silence!” and “Order!” When it subsided, I
saw them all drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the
four tables; all held books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay
on each table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some seconds succeeded,
filled up by the low, vague hum of numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to
class, hushing this indefinite sound.</p>
<p>A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each walked
to a table and took her seat; Miss Miller assumed the fourth vacant chair,
which was that nearest the door, and around which the smallest of the children
were assembled: to this inferior class I was called, and placed at the bottom
of it.</p>
<p>Business now began: the day’s Collect was repeated, then certain texts of
Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of chapters in
the Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day
had fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: the
classes were marshalled and marched into another room to breakfast: how glad I
was to behold a prospect of getting something to eat! I was now nearly sick
from inanition, having taken so little the day before.</p>
<p>The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables smoked
basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour far
from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of discontent when the fumes of
the repast met the nostrils of those destined to swallow it; from the van of
the procession, the tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered
words—</p>
<p>“Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!”</p>
<p>“Silence!” ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of
the upper teachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of
somewhat morose aspect, who installed herself at the top of one table, while a
more buxom lady presided at the other. I looked in vain for her I had first
seen the night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied the foot of
the table where I sat, and a strange, foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French
teacher, as I afterwards found, took the corresponding seat at the other board.
A long grace was said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for
the teachers, and the meal began.</p>
<p>Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my portion
without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger blunted, I
perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad as
rotten potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were moved
slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases
the effort was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted.
Thanks being returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the
refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out,
and in passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and
taste it; she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed
displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—</p>
<p>“Abominable stuff! How shameful!”</p>
<p>A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which the
schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it seemed to be
permitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used their privilege.
The whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly.
Poor things! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller was now the only
teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke with
serious and sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by
some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made no
great effort to check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.</p>
<p>A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and
standing in the middle of the room, cried—</p>
<p>“Silence! To your seats!”</p>
<p>Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved into
order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper
teachers now punctually resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait.
Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty girls sat motionless
and erect; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all with plain locks combed from
their faces, not a curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded by
a narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets of holland (shaped
something like a Highlander’s purse) tied in front of their frocks, and
destined to serve the purpose of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen
stockings and country-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above
twenty of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather young
women; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest.</p>
<p>I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the
teachers—none of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a
little coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and
grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple, weather-beaten, and
over-worked—when, as my eye wandered from face to face, the whole school
rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring.</p>
<p>What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I had
gathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes were now
turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and encountered the
personage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the long
room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the two
rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask her
a question, and having received her answer, went back to her place, and said
aloud—</p>
<p>“Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!”</p>
<p>While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly up the
room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet the
sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad
daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a benignant light
in their irids, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the
whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very dark
brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the fashion of those times,
when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in
the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish
trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not so common then as now)
shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture, refined
features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he
will have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of the
exterior of Miss Temple—Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name
written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to carry to church.</p>
<p>The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her seat
before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the first class
round her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes were
called by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar, &c., went on for
an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded, and music lessons were given by Miss
Temple to some of the elder girls. The duration of each lesson was measured by
the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent rose—</p>
<p>“I have a word to address to the pupils,” said she.</p>
<p>The tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth, but it sank at
her voice. She went on—</p>
<p>“You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be
hungry:—I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served
to all.”</p>
<p>The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.</p>
<p>“It is to be done on my responsibility,” she added, in an
explanatory tone to them, and immediately afterwards left the room.</p>
<p>The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the high
delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now given “To
the garden!” Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of coloured
calico, and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and, following
the stream, I made my way into the open air.</p>
<p>The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to exclude
every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one side, and broad
walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little beds: these beds
were assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had an
owner. When full of flowers they would doubtless look pretty; but now, at the
latter end of January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I
stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not
positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was
still soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls
ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones herded
together for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as the
dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound
of a hollow cough.</p>
<p>As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of me; I
stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was accustomed; it did
not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my grey
mantle close about me, and, trying to forget the cold which nipped me without,
and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me within, delivered myself up to the
employment of watching and thinking. My reflections were too undefined and
fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my
past life seemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the present was
vague and strange, and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked round
the convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a large building, half
of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part,
containing the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed
windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the door bore
this inscription:—</p>
<p class="center">
LOWOOD INSTITUTION.<br/>
<br/>
This portion was rebuilt A.D. ——, by Naomi Brocklehurst,<br/>
of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county.<br/>
<br/>
“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works,
and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”—St. Matt. v. 16.</p>
<p>I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged to
them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was still pondering the
signification of “Institution,” and endeavouring to make out a
connection between the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound
of a cough close behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a
stone bench near; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed
intent: from where I stood I could see the title—it was
“Rasselas;” a name that struck me as strange, and consequently
attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look up, and I said to her
directly—</p>
<p>“Is your book interesting?” I had already formed the intention of
asking her to lend it to me some day.</p>
<p>“I like it,” she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during
which she examined me.</p>
<p>“What is it about?” I continued. I hardly know where I found the
hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to
my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy
somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I
could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.</p>
<p>“You may look at it,” replied the girl, offering me the book.</p>
<p>I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking
than the title: “Rasselas” looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw
nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread
over the closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it quietly,
and without saying anything she was about to relapse into her former studious
mood: again I ventured to disturb her—</p>
<p>“Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What
is Lowood Institution?”</p>
<p>“This house where you are come to live.”</p>
<p>“And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from
other schools?”</p>
<p>“It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are
charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father or
your mother dead?”</p>
<p>“Both died before I can remember.”</p>
<p>“Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this
is called an institution for educating orphans.”</p>
<p>“Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?”</p>
<p>“We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each.”</p>
<p>“Then why do they call us charity-children?”</p>
<p>“Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the
deficiency is supplied by subscription.”</p>
<p>“Who subscribes?”</p>
<p>“Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood
and in London.”</p>
<p>“Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?”</p>
<p>“The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records,
and whose son overlooks and directs everything here.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment.”</p>
<p>“Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and
who said we were to have some bread and cheese?”</p>
<p>“To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr.
Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our
clothes.”</p>
<p>“Does he live here?”</p>
<p>“No—two miles off, at a large hall.”</p>
<p>“Is he a good man?”</p>
<p>“He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good.”</p>
<p>“Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And what are the other teachers called?”</p>
<p>“The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work,
and cuts out—for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and
everything; the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches
history and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and the one who
wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow
ribband, is Madame Pierrot: she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches
French.”</p>
<p>“Do you like the teachers?”</p>
<p>“Well enough.”</p>
<p>“Do you like the little black one, and the Madame ——?—I
cannot pronounce her name as you do.”</p>
<p>“Miss Scatcherd is hasty—you must take care not to offend her;
Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person.”</p>
<p>“But Miss Temple is the best—isn’t she?”</p>
<p>“Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because
she knows far more than they do.”</p>
<p>“Have you been long here?”</p>
<p>“Two years.”</p>
<p>“Are you an orphan?”</p>
<p>“My mother is dead.”</p>
<p>“Are you happy here?”</p>
<p>“You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for
the present: now I want to read.”</p>
<p>But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the house.
The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than that
which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in two huge
tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found
the mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat,
mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful
was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within
myself whether every day’s fare would be like this.</p>
<p>After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced,
and were continued till five o’clock.</p>
<p>The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I had
conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a
history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom.
The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignominious, especially for so
great a girl—she looked thirteen or upwards. I expected she would show
signs of great distress and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor
blushed: composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes.
“How can she bear it so quietly—so firmly?” I asked of
myself. “Were I in her place, it seems to me I should wish the earth to
open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were thinking of something beyond
her punishment—beyond her situation: of something not round her nor
before her. I have heard of day-dreams—is she in a day-dream now? Her
eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it—her sight
seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at what she can
remember, I believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a
girl she is—whether good or naughty.”</p>
<p>Soon after five <small>P.M.</small> we had another meal, consisting of a small
mug of coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank
my coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more—I was
still hungry. Half-an-hour’s recreation succeeded, then study; then the
glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first
day at Lowood.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />