Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers
the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor
Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors
spread and grey rocks are piled? Men are hard-hearted, and kind
angels only Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are
none, and clear stars beam mild, God, in His mercy, protection is
showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.
Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in the
marshes, by false lights beguiled, Still will my Father, with
promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.
There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both
of shelter and kindred despoiled; Heaven is a home, and a rest will
not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child.’
‘Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,’ said Bessie as she finished. She might
as well have said to the fire, ‘don’t burn!’ but how could she divine
the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the
morning Mr. Lloyd came again.
‘What, already up!’ said he, as he entered the nursery. ‘Well, nurse,
how is she?’ Bessie answered that I was doing very well.
‘Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Mis Jane: your
name is Jane, is it not?’ ‘Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.’ ‘Well, you have been
crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what about? Have you any
‘No, sir.’ ‘Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out
with Missis in the carriage,’ interposed Bessie.
‘Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness.’ I thought so
too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I
answered promptly, ‘I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate
going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable.’ ‘Oh fie,
Miss!’ said Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing
before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were
small and grey; not very bright, but I daresay I should think them
shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet goodnatured looking face.
Having considered me at leisure, he said‘What made you ill
yesterday?’ ‘She had a fall,’ said Bessie, again putting in her word.
‘Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can’t she manage to walk at
her age? She must be eight or nine years old.’ ‘I was knocked
down,’ was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by another
pang of mortified pride; ‘but that did not make me ill,’ I added;
while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell
rang for the servants’ dinner; he knew what it was. ‘That’s for you,