In March I woke to a murmur at my door and a smell of burning. Mr Rochester's bed was on fire, and he lay so deep in sleep that shaking did not rouse him. I threw two jugs of water over the bed and the man together. He stood dripping in the ruined room and asked whether I had seen anything, and when I said Grace Poole, he agreed too quickly. He held my hand a long time and thanked me for saving his life. In summer the house filled with guests, and among them came Miss Blanche Ingram, tall, dark, splendid, and openly hunting a fortune. I told myself that a plain governess had no business feeling anything at all, and I painted my own portrait in chalk to remember it.