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A er in a noel is sothing like a new se in a py; and when I draw up the curtain this ti, reader, you st fancy you see a rooin the Gee Inn at Mite, with such rge figured papering on the walls as inn roo hae; such a carpet, such furniture, suents oelpiece, such prints, including a portrait of Gee the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales, and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is isible to you by the light of an oil hanging frothe ceiling, and by that of an ecellent fire, near which I sit in cloak and bo; ff and urel lie oable, and I awarng away the nuness and chill tracted by siteen hours’ eposure to the rawness of an October day: I left Lowton at four o’clock a., and the Mite town clock is now just striki.
Reader, though I look fortably aodated, I aranquil in nd. I thought when thach stopped here there would be so oo et ; I looked aniously round as I desded the woodehe “boots” pced for enience, epeg to hear na pronounced, and to see so description of carriage waiting to ey to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was isible; and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answered in the ie: so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a priate roo and here I awaiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling thoughts.
It is a ery strange sensation to ineperienced youth to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift froeery e, uaiher the port to which it is bound be reached, and preented by s froreturning to that it has quitted. The charof adenture sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride war it; but thehrob of fear disturbs it; and fear with beca predonant when half-an-hour epsed and still I was alone. I bethought self t the bell.
“Is there a p this neighbourhood called Thornfield?” I asked of the waiter who answered the suons.
“Thornfield? I don’t know, ’a I’ll inquire at the bar.” He anished, but reappeared instantly—
“Is your na Eyre, Miss?”
“Yes.”
“Person here waiting for you.”
I jued up, took ff and urel, and hastened into the inn- passage: a n was standing by the open door, and in the -lit street I diy saw a one-horse eyance.
“This will be ygage, I suppose?” said the n rather abruptly when he saw , pointing to trunk in the passage.
“Yes.” He hoisted it on to the ehicle, which was a sort of car, and then I got in; before he shut up, I asked hihow far it was to Thornfield.
“A tter of si les.”
“How long shall we be before we get there?”
“Happen an hour and a half.”
He fastehe car door, clied to his ow outside, a off. Our progress was leisurely, and gae ale ti to reflect; I was tent to be at length so he end of journey; and as I leaned ba the fortable though not elegant eyance, I ditated ch at ease.
“I suppose,” thought I, “judging frothe pinness of the serant and carriage, Mrs. Fairfa is not a ery dashing person: so ch the better; I neer lied angst fine people but once, and I was ery serable with the I wonder if she lies alo this little girl; if so, and if she is in any degree aable, I shall surely be able to get on with her; I will do best; it is a pity that doing one’s best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that resolutio it, and sueeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, I reer best was always spurned with s. I pray God Mrs. Fairfa y not turn out a sers. Reed; but if she does, I anot bound to stay with her! let the worst e to the worst, I adertise again. How far are we on our road now, I wonder?”
I let down the window and looked out; Mite was behind us; judging by the nuer of its lights, it seed a pce of siderable gnitude, ch rger than Lowton. We were now, as far as uld see, on a sort of on; but there were houses scattered all oer the district; I fe we were in a different region to Lowood, re populous, less picturesque; re stirring, less rontic.
The roads were heay, the night sty; ductor let his horse walk all the way, and the hour and a half etended, I erify beliee, to two hours; at st he turned in his seat and said—
“You’re noan so far fro’ Thornfield now.”
Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad tainst the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a narrow gay of lights too, on a hillside, rking a ilge or haet. About ten nutes after, the drier got down and opened a pair of gates: we passed through, and they cshed to behind us. We now slowly asded a drie, and ca upon the long front of a house: dlelight glead froone curtained bow-window; all the rest were dark. The car stopped at the front door; it ened by a id-serant; I alighted a in.
“Will you walk this way, ’a” said the girl; and I followed her across a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered into a roowhose double illunation of fire and dle at first dazzled , trasting as it did with the darko whibsp; eyes had been for two hours inured; when uld see, howeer, sy and agreeable picture preseself to iew.
A snug sll roo a round table by a cheerful fire; an archair high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the igitle elderly dy, in widow’s cap, bck silk gown, and snowy slin aproly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfa, only less stately and lder looking. She was oupied in knitting; a rge cat sat derely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to plete the beau-ideal of dostifort. A re reassuring introdu for a new goernesuld scarcely be ceied; there was no grao oerwhel no statelio earrass; and then, as I ehe old dy got up and protly and kindly ca forward to et .
“How do you do, dear? I aafraid you hae had a tedious ride; John dries so slowly; you st bld, e to the fire.”
“Mrs. Fairfa, I suppose?” said I.
“Yes, you are right: do sit down.”
She ducted to her own chair, and then began to ree shawl and untie bs; I begged she would not gie herself so ch trouble.
“Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are alst nued witld. Leah, ke a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two: here are the keys of the storeroo”
And she produced froher pocket a st housewifely bunch of keys, and deliered theto the serant.
“Now, then, draw o the fire,” she tinued. “You’e brought ygage with you, haen’t you, dear?”
“Yes, ’a”
“I’ll see it carried into your roo” she said, and bustled out.
“She treats like a isitor,” thought I. “I little epected such a reception; I anticipated only ess and stiffness: this is not like what I hae heard of the treatnt of goernesses; but I st too soon.”
She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a book or two frothe table, to ke roofor the tray which Leah nht, and then herself handed the refreshnts. I fe rather fused at being the objeore attention than I had eer before receied, and, that too, shown by eloyer and superior; but as she did not herself seeto sider she was doing anything out of her pce, I thought it better to take her ciilities quietly.
“Shall I hae the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfa to-night?” I asked, when I had partaken of what she offered .
“What did you say, dear? I aa little deaf,” returhe good dy, approag her ear to uth.
I repeated the question re distinctly.
“Miss Fairfa? Oh, you an Miss Varens! Varens is the na of your future pupil.”
“Ihen she is not your daughter?”
“No,—I hae no faly.”
I should hae followed up first inquiry, by asking in what way Miss Varens was ected with her; but I llected it was not polite to ask too ny questions: besides, I was sure to hear in ti.
“I aso gd,” she tinued, as she sat down opposite to , and took the cat on her knee; “I aso gd you are e; it will be quite pleasant liing here now with a panion. To be sure it is pleasant at any ti; for Thornfield is a fine old hall, rather ed of te years perhaps, but still it is a respectable pce; yet you know in wii one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say alone—Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and John and his wife are ery det people; but then you see they are only serants, and o erse with theon ter of equality: o keep theat due distance, for fear of losing one’s authority. I’sure st winter (it was a ery seere one, if you llect, and when it did not snow, it rained and blew), not a creature but the butcher and postn ca to the house, froill February; and I really got quite ncholy with sitting night after night alone; I had Leah in to read to sotis; but I don’t think the pirl liked the task ch: she fe it fining. In spring and suer o oer: sunshine and long days ke such a difference; and then, just at the e of this autu, little Ade Varens d her nurse: a child kes a house alie all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay.”
My heart really ward to the worthy dy as I heard her talk; and I drew chair a little o her, and epressed sincere wish that she ght find  any as agreeable as she anticipated.
“But I’ll not keep you sitting up te to-night,” said she; “it is oroke of twele now, and you hae been traelling all day: you st feel tired. If you hae got your feet well ward, I’ll show you your bedroo I’e had the rooo ne prepared for you; it is only a sll apartnt, but I thought you would like it better than one of the rge front chaers: to be sure they hae finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary, I neer sleep in theself.”
I thanked her for her siderate choice, and as I really fe fatigued with long journey, epressed readio retire. She took her dle, and I followed her frothe roo First she went to see if the hall-door was fastened; haing taken the key frothe lock, she led the stairs. The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window was high and tticed; both it and the long gallery into which the bedroodoors opened looked as if they beloo a church rather than a house. A ery chill and au- like air peraded the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas of spad solitude; and I was gd, when finally ushered into chaer, to find it of sll dinsions, and furnished in ordinary, dern style.
When Mrs. Fairfa had bidden a kind good-night, and I had fastened dazed leisurely round, and in so asure effaced the eerie iression de by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase, and that longld gallery, by the lielier aspey little roo I reered that, after a day of bodily fatigue aal ay, I was now at st in safe haen. The iulse of gratitude swelled heart, and I k down at the bedside, and offered up thanks where thanks were due; not fetting, ere I rose, to ilore aid on further path, and the power of riting the kindness which seed so frankly offered before it was earned. Much had no thorns in it that night; solitary roono fears. At once weary a, I slept soon and soundly: when I awoke it was broad day.
The chaer looked such a bright little pe as the sun shone iween the gay blue tz window curtains, showing papered walls and a carpeted floor, so uhe bare pnks and stained pster of Lowood, that spirits rose at the iew. Eternals hae a great effe the young: I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for , ohat was to hae its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns and toils. My facuies, roused by the ge of se, the new field offered to hope, seed all astir. I ot precisely define what they epected, but it was sothing pleasant: not perhaps that day or that nth, but at an indefiure period.
I rose; I dressed self with care: obliged to be pin—for I had no article of attire that was not de with etre silicity—I was still by nature solicitous to be . It was not habit to be disregardful of appearance or careless of the iression I de: orary, I eer wished to look as well as uld, and to please as ch as want of beauty would pert. I sotis regretted that I was not handsor; I sotis wished to hae rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and sll cherry uth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely deeloped in figure; I fe it a sfortuhat I was so little, so pale, and had features sur and so rked. And why had I these aspirations and these regrets? It would be difficu to say: uld not then distinctly say it to self; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too. Howeer, when I had brushed hair ery soth, and put on bck frock—which, Quakerlike as it was, at least had the rit of fitting to a y—and adjusted white tucker, I thought I should do respectably enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfa, and that new pupil would not at least il fro with antipathy. Haing opened chaer window, ahat I left all things straight a ooilet table, I entured forth.
Traersing the long and tted gallery, I desded the slippery steps of oak; then I gaihe hall: I haed there a nute; I looked at so pictures on the walls (one, I reer, represented a grin in a cuirass, and one a dy with powdered hair and a pearl neckce), at a bronze pe frothe ceiling, at a great clock whose case was of oak curiously cared, and ebon bck with ti and rubbihing appeared ery stately and iosing to ;cite;/cite; but then I was so little aced to grandeur. The hall-door, which was half of gss, stood open; I stepped oer the threshold. It was a fiu the early sun shone serenely on erowned groes and still green fields; adang on to the wn, I looked up and sureyed the front of the nsion. It was three storeys high, of proportions not ast, though siderable: a gentlen’s nor-house, not a noblen’s seat: battlents round the top gae it a picturesque look. Its grey front stood out well frothe background of a rookery, whose g tenants were now on the wing: they flew oer the wn and grounds to alight in a great adow, frowhich these were separated by a sunk fence, and where an array of ghty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks, at once epihe etylogy of the nsion’s designation. Farther off were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor sy, nor so like barriers of separation frothe liing world; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeng to erace Thornfield with a seclusion I had ed to fient so he stirring locality of Mite. A little haet, whose roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills; the church of the district stood hornfield: its old tower-top looked oer a knoll between the house and gates.
I was yet enjoying the calprosped pleasant fresh air, yet listening with delight to the g of the rooks, yet sureying the wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great pce it was for one lonely little da like Mrs. Fairfa to inhabit, when that dy appeared at the door.
“What! out already?” said she. “I see you are an early riser.” I went up to her, and was receied with an affable kiss and shake of the hand.
“How do you like Thornfield?” she asked. I told her I liked it ery ch.
“Yes,” she said, “it is a pretty pce; but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to e and reside here perly; or, at least, isit it rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor.”
“Mr. Rochester!” I ecid. “Who is he?”
“The owner of Thornfield,” she responded quietly. “Did you not know he was called Rochester?”
Ourse I did not—I had neer heard of ;big;/bighibefore; but the old dy seed tard his eistence as a uniersally uood fact, with which eerybody st be acquainted by instinct.
“I thought,” I tinued, “Thornfield beloo you.”
“To ? Bless you, child; what ao ! I aonly the housekeeper—the o be sure I adistantly reted to the Rochesters by the ther’s side, or at least husband was; he was a clergyn, i of Hay—that little ilge yonder on the hill—and that churear the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester’s ther was a Fairfa, and seusin to husband: but I neer presu on the e—in fact, it is nothing to ; I sider self quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper: eloyer is always ciil, and I epeothing re.”
“And the little girl— pupil!”
“She is Mr. Rochester’s ward; he issioned to find a goerness for her. He inteo hae her brought up in—shire, I beliee. Here she es, with her ‘bonne,’ as she calls her he enig then ihis affable and kind little as no great d but a dependant like self. I did not like her the worse for that; orary, I fe better pleased thahe equality between her and was real; not the re resu of dession on her part: so ch the better— position was all the freer.
As I was ditating on this dery, a little girl, followed by her attendant, ca running up the wn. I looked at  upil, who did not at first appear to notice : she was quite a child, perhaps seen ht years old, slightly bui, with a pale, sll-featured face, and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.
“Good Miss Ade,” said Mrs. Fairfa. “e and speak to the dy who is to teach you, and to ke you a cleer won so day.” She approached.
“C’est le gouerante!” said she, pointing to , and addressing her nurse; who answered—
“Mais oui, certai.”
“Are they fners?” I inquired, azed at hearing the Frenguage.
“The nurse is a fner, and Ade was born oi; and, I beliee, neer left it till within si nths ago. When she first ca here shuld speak no English; now she ke shift to talk it a little: I don’t uand her, she es it so with French; but you will ke out her aning ery well, I dare say.”
Fortunately I had had the adantage of being taught French by a French dy; and as I had always de a point with Mada Pierrot as often as uld, and had besides, during the st seen years, learnt a portion of French by heart daily—applyio take pains with at, and itating as closely as possible the pronunciation of teacher, I had acquired a certain degree of readiness anrreess in the nguage, and was not likely to be ch at a loss with Madeiselle Ade. She d shook hand with when she heard that I was her goerness; and as I led her in to breakfast, I addressed so phrases to her in her own tongue: she replied briefly at first, but after we were seated at the table, and she had eaned so ten nutes with her rge hazel eyes, she suddenly enced chattering fluently.
“Ah!” cried she, in French, “you speak nguage as well as Mr. Rochester does: I talk to you as I to hi and so Sophie. She will be gd: nobody here uands her: Mada Fairfa is all English. Sophie is nurse; she ca with oer the sea in a great ship with a ey that sked—how it did ske!—and I was sick, and so was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester y down on a sofa in a pretty roocalled the salon, and Sophie and I had little beds in another pce. I nearly fell out of was like a shelf. And Madeiselle—what is your na?”
“Eyre—Jane Eyre.”
“Aire? Bah! I ot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the before it was quite daylight, at a great city—a huge city, with ery dark houses and all sky; not at all like the pretty town I ca fro and Mr. Rochester carried in his ar oer a pnk to the nd, and Sophie ca after, and we all got into ach, which took us to a beautiful rge house, rger than this and finer, called an hotel. We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to walk eery day in a great green pce full of trees, called the Park; and there were ny children there besides , and a pond with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with crus.”
“ you uand her when she runs on so fast?” asked Mrs. Fairfa.
I uood her ery well, for I had beeo the fluent tongue of Mada Pierrot.
“I wish,” tihe good dy, “you would ask her a question or two about her parents: I wonder if she reers the”
“Adèle,” I inquired, “with whodid you lie when you were in that pretty town you spoke of?”
“I lied long ago with ; but she is goo the Holy Virgin. Ma used to teabsp; to dand sing, and to say erses. A great len and dies ca to see , and I used to dance before the or to sit on their knees and sing to the I liked it. Shall I let you hear sing now?”
She had finished her breakfast, so I pertted her to gie a spe of her aplishnts. Desding froher chair, she d pced herself on khen, folding her little hands derely before her, shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she enced singing a song froso opera. It was the strain of a forsaken dy, who, after bewailing the perfidy of her loer, calls pride to her aid; desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest jewels and richest robes, and resoles to et the false ohat night at a ball, and proe to hi by the gaiety of her deanour, how little his desertion has affected her.
The subject seed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I suppose the point of the ehibition y in hearing the notes of loe and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in ery bad taste that point was: at least I thought so.
Adèle sang the zounefully enough, and with the é of her age. This achieed, she jued fro knee and said, “Now, Madeiselle, I will repeat you so poetry.”
Assung an attitude, she began, “La Ligue des Rats: fable de La Fontaine.” She then decid the little piece with an attention to punctuation and ehasis, a fleibility of oid an appropriateness of gesture, ery unusual i her age, and which proed she had been carefully trained.
“Was it your who taught you that piece?” I asked.
“Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: ‘Qu’ aez ous donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!’ She de lift hand—so—to reo raise oice at the question. Now shall I dance for you?”
“No, that will do: but after your went to the Holy Virgin, as you say, with whodid you lie then?”
“With Mada Frédérid her husband: she took care of , but she is nothied to . I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a house as . I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked if I would like to go and lie with hiin Engnd, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Mada Frédérid he was always kind to and gae  retty dresses and toys: but you see he has not kept his word, for he has brought to Engnd, and now he is gone back again hielf, and I neer see hi”
After breakfast, Adèle and I withdrew to the library, whi, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the schoolroo Most of the books were locked up behind gss doors; but there was one bookcase left open tainihing thauld be needed in the way of elentary works, and seeral olus of light literature, poetry, biography, traels, a few ronces, c. I suppose he had sidered that these were all the goerness would require for her priate perusal; and, ihey tented aly for the present; pared with the sty pigs I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they seed to offer an abundant harest of eai and infortion. In this roo too, there was a et piano, quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting and a pair of globes.
I found  upil suffitly docile, though disio apply: she had not beeur oupation of any kind. I fe it would be injudicious to fioo ch at first; so, when I had talked treat deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the had adao noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then proposed to oupy self till dii in drawing so little sketches for her use.
As I was going upstairs to fetbsp; ortfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfa called to : “Your school-hours are oer now, I suppose,” said she. She was in a roothe folding-doors of which stood open: I went in when she addressed . It was a rge, stately apartnt, with purple chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, o window ri snted gss, and a lofty ceiling, nobly ulded. Mrs. Fairfa was dusting so ases of fine purple spar, which stood on a sideboard.
“What a beautiful roo” I ecid, as I looked round; for I had neer before seen any half so iosing.
“Yes; this is the dining-roo I hae just opehe window, to let in a little air and sunshine; for eerythis so da in apartnts that are seldoinhabited; the drawing-rooyonder feels like a au.”
She poio a wide arcrresponding to the window, and hung like it with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two broad steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glise of a fairy pce, sht to noice-eyes appeared the iew beyond. Yet it was rely a ery pretty drawing-roo and within it a boudoir, both spread with white carpets, on which seed id brilliant garnds of flowers; both ceiled with snowy uldings of white grapes and ine-leaes, beh which glowed in rich trast criouches and ottons; while the ors on the pale Pariain ntelpiece were of sparkling Bohean gss, ruby red; aween the winde rrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.
“In what order you keep these roo, Mrs. Fairfa!” said I. “No dust, no as cs: ecept that the air feels chilly, one would think they were inhabited daily.”
“Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester’s isits here are rare, they are always sudden and ued; and as I obsered that it put hiout to fihing swathed up, and to hae a bustle ent on his arrial, I thought it best to keep the roo in readiness.”
“Is Mr. Rochester aing, fastidious sort of n?”
“Not particurly so; but he has a gentlen’s tastes and habits, and he epects to hae things naged in ity to the”
“Do you like hi Is he generally liked?”
“Oh, yes; the faly hae always been respected here. Alst all the nd in this neighbourhood, as far as you see, has beloo the Rochesters ti out of nd.”
“Well, but, leaing his nd out of the question, do you like hi Is he liked for hielf?”
“I hae no cause to do otherwise than like hi and I beliee he is sidered a just and liberal ndlord by his tenants: but he has neer lied gst the”
“But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his character?”
“Oh! his character is unieachable, I suppose. He is rather peculiar, perhaps: he has traelled a great deal, and seen a great deal of the world, I should think. I dare say he is cleer, but I neer had ch ersation with hi”
“In what way is he peculiar?”
“I don’t know—it is not easy to describe—nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks to you; you ot be always sure whether he is i or ear, whether he is pleased or the trary; you don’t thhly uand hi in short—at least, I don’t: but it is of no sequence, he is a ery good ster.”
This was all the at I got froMrs. Fairfa of her eloyer and here are people who seeto hae no notion of sketg a character, or and describing salient points, either in persons or things: the good dy eidently beloo this css; queries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester in her eyes; a gentlen, a nded proprietor—nothing re: she inquired and searched no further, and eidently wo wish to gain a re defiion of his identity.
When we left the dining-roo she proposed to show oer the rest of the house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs, adring as I went; for all was well arranged and handso. The rge front chaers I thought especially grand: and so of the third-storey roo, though dark and low, were iing frotheir air of antiquity. The furniture once appropriated to the loartnts had froti to ti been reed here, as fashions ged: and the ierfect light entering by their narrow t showed bedsteads of a hundred years old; chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strange gs of palbranches and cherubs’ heads, like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of enerable chairs, high-backed and narrow; stools still re antiquated, on whose cushioops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced eroideries, wrought by fihat for two geions had beeffin-dust. All these relics gae to the third storey of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a ho of the past: a shrine of ry. I liked the hush, the gloo the quaintness of these retreats in ;sa?;/sathe day; but I by no aed a night’s repose on one of those wide and heay beds: shut in, so of the with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought old English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and stra hun beings,— all which would hae looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleaof onlight.
“Do the serants sleep in these roo?” I asked.
“No; they oupy a range of sller apartnts to the bao one eer sleeps here: one would alst say that, if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt.”
“So I think: you hae no ghost, then?”
“hat I eer heard of,” returned Mrs. Fairfa, sling.
“Nor any traditions of one? no legends host stories?”
“I beliee not. A is said the Rochesters hae been rather a iolent than a quiet ra their ti: perhaps, though, that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graes now.”
“Yes—‘after life’s fitful feer they sleep well,’” I ttered. “Where are you going now, Mrs. Fairfa?” for she was ing away.
“On to the leads; will you e ahe iew frothence?” I followed still, up a ery narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by a dder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on a leel with the crow y, anuld see into their s. Leanihe battlents and looking far do..wn, I sureyed the grounds id out like a p: the bright a wn closely girdling the grey base of the nsion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with its aier; the wood, dun and sere, diided by a path isibly rown, greener with ss tharees were with foliage; the church at the gates, the road, the tranquil hills, all reposing iu day’s sun; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky, azure, rbled with pearly white. ure in the se was etraordinary, but all leasing. When I turned froit and repassed the trap-door, uld scarcely see way down the dder; the attic seed bck as a au pared with that arch of blue air to which I had been looking up, and to that sunlit se of groe, pasture, and green hill, of which the hall was the tre, and oer which I had been gazing with delight.
Mrs. Fairfa stayed behind a nt to fasterap-door; I, by drift of groping, found the outlet frothe attid proceeded to desd the narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which this led, separating the front and bas of the third storey: narrow, low, and di with only otle window at the far end, and looking, with its two rows of sll bck doors all shut, like rridor in so Bluebeard’s castle.
While I paced softly on, the st sound I epected to hear in so still a region, a ugh, strubsp; ear. It was a curious ugh; distinct, forl, rthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant; it began again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was ery low. It passed off in a crous peal that seed to wake an echo in eery lonely chaer; though it inated but in one, and uld hae pointed out the door whehe ats issued.
“Mrs. Fairfa!” I called out: for I now heard her desding the great stairs. “Did you hear that loud ugh? Who is it?”
“So of the serants, ery likely,” she answered: “perhaps Grace Poole.”
“Did you hear it?” I again inquired.
“Yes, pinly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these roo. Sotis Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together.”
The ugh was repeated in its low, sylbie, aed in an odd rr.
“Grace!” ecid Mrs. Fairfa.
I really did not epey Grace to answer; for the ugh was as tragic, as preternatural a ugh as any I eer heard; and, but that it was high noon, and that no circe of ghostliness apahe curious caation; but tha;sa;/sat her se nor season faoured fear, I should hae been superstitiously afraid. Howeer, the eent showed I was a fool for eaining a sense een of surprise.
The door opened, and a serant ca out,—a won of between thirty and forty; a set, square-de figure, red-haired, and with a hard, pin face: any apparition less rontic or less ghostluld scarcely be ceied.
“Too oise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfa. “Reer dires!” Grace curtseyed silently a in.
“She is a person we hae to sew and assist Leah in her houseid’s work,” tihe widow; “not aogether uionable in so points, but she does well enough. By-the-bye, how hae you got on with your new pupil this ”
The ersation, thus turned on Adèle, tiill we reached the light and cheerful region below. Adèle ca running to et us in the hall, eg—
“Mesdas, ous etes series!” adding, “J’ai bien fai i!”
We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfa’s roo
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