"What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry--

     "Jane! Jane! Jane!"--nothing more.

     "O God! what is it?" I gasped.

     I might have said, "Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room--nor in the house--nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air--nor from under the earth--nor from overhead. I had heard it--where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being--a known, loved, well-remembered voice--that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.

     "I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.

     "Where are you?" I exclaimed.