From my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reportedconference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope tosuffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,--I desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days andweeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no newallusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reedsurveyed me at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me:since my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separationthan ever between me and her own children; appointing me a smallcloset to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take my meals alone,and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins wereconstantly in the drawing-room. Not a hint, however, did she dropabout sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certaintythat she would not long endure me under the same roof with her; forher glance, now more than ever, when turned on me, expressed aninsuperable and rooted aversion.

Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke tome as little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheekwhenever he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as Iinstantly turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deepire and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, hethought it better to desist, and ran from me tittering execrations,and vowing I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at thatprominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict; andwhen I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I had thegreatest inclination to follow up my advantage to purpose; but hewas already with his mama. I heard him in a blubbering tonecommence the tale of how "that nasty Jane Eyre" had flown at himlike a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly -

"Don't talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her;she is not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or yoursisters should associate with her."

Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and withoutat all deliberating on my words -

"They are not fit to associate with me."

Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange andaudacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me like awhirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of mycrib, dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place, orutter one syllable during the remainder of the day.

"What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?" was myscarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemedas if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to theirutterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no control.

"What?" said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composedgrey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took her handfrom my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether Iwere child or fiend. I was now in for it.

"My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; andso can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long,and how you wish me dead."

Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, sheboxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessiesupplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in which sheproved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned childever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeedonly bad feelings surging in my breast.

November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas andthe New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festivecheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening partiesgiven. From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my shareof the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Elizaand Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-room, dressedout in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair elaboratelyringletted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound of the pianoor the harp played below, to the passing to and fro of the butlerand footman, to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments werehanded, to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room dooropened and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would retirefrom the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery: there,though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I had notthe least wish to go into company, for in company I was very rarelynoticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable, I shouldhave deemed it a treat to spend the evenings quietly with her,instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed, in aroom full of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she haddressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the livelyregions of the kitchen and housekeeper's room, generally bearing thecandle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till thefire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothingworse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sankto a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings asI best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib.To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must lovesomething, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, Icontrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded gravenimage, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now toremember with what absurd sincerity I doated on this little toy,half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could not sleepunless it was folded in my night-gown; and when it lay there safeand warm, I was comparatively happy, believing it to be happylikewise.

Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company,and listened for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs:sometimes she would come up in the interval to seek her thimble orher scissors, or perhaps to bring me something by way of supper--abun or a cheese-cake--then she would sit on the bed while I ate it,and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, andtwice she kissed me, and said, "Good night, Miss Jane." When thusgentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being inthe world; and I wished most intensely that she would always be sopleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or task meunreasonably, as she was too often wont to do. Bessie Lee must, Ithink, have been a girl of good natural capacity, for she was smartin all she did, and had a remarkable knack of narrative; so, atleast, I judge from the impression made on me by her nursery tales.She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and person arecorrect. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair,dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion; but shehad a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas ofprinciple or justice: still, such as she was, I preferred her toany one else at Gateshead Hall.

It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o'clock in the morning:Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins had not yet beensummoned to their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warmgarden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of which shewas fond: and not less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeperand hoarding up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn fortraffic, and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in thevending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bargains withthe gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; thatfunctionary having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young ladyall the products of her parterre she wished to sell: and Elizawould have sold the hair off her head if she could have made ahandsome profit thereby. As to her money, she first secreted it inodd corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some ofthese hoards having been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza, fearfulof one day losing her valued treasure, consented to intrust it toher mother, at a usurious rate of interest--fifty or sixty percent.; which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping heraccounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.

Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass, andinterweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers,of which she had found a store in a drawer in the attic. I wasmaking my bed, having received strict orders from Bessie to get itarranged before she returned (for Bessie now frequently employed meas a sort of under-nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs,&c.). Having spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went tothe window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll's housefurniture scattered there; an abrupt command from Georgiana to lether playthings alone (for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the fairyplates and cups, were her property) stopped my proceedings; andthen, for lack of other occupation, I fell to breathing on thefrost-flowers with which the window was fretted, and thus clearing aspace in the glass through which I might look out on the grounds,where all was still and petrified under the influence of a hardfrost.

From this window were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage-road, and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-whitefoliage veiling the panes as left room to look out, I saw the gatesthrown open and a carriage roll through. I watched it ascending thedrive with indifference; carriages often came to Gateshead, but noneever brought visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in frontof the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted.All this being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon foundlivelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, whichcame and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailedagainst the wall near the casement. The remains of my breakfast ofbread and milk stood on the table, and having crumbled a morsel ofroll, I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs on the window-sill, when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery.

"Miss Jane, take off your pinafore; what are you doing there? Haveyou washed your hands and face this morning?" I gave another tugbefore I answered, for I wanted the bird to be secure of its bread:the sash yielded; I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone sill,some on the cherry-tree bough, then, closing the window, I replied -

"No, Bessie; I have only just finished dusting."

"Troublesome, careless child! and what are you doing now? You lookquite red, as if you had been about some mischief: what were youopening the window for?"

I was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed in toogreat a hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to thewashstand, inflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my faceand hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; disciplined my headwith a bristly brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then hurryingme to the top of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I waswanted in the breakfast-room.

I would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs.Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed thenursery-door upon me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months,I had never been called to Mrs. Reed's presence; restricted so longto the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms were becomefor me awful regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude.

I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-roomdoor, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserablelittle poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made ofme in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared togo forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitatedhesitation; the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decidedme; I MUST enter.

"Who could want me?" I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turnedthe stiff door-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted myefforts. "What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?--aman or a woman?" The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passingthrough and curtseying low, I looked up at--a black pillar!--such,at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow,sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the grim face at thetop was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft by way ofcapital.

Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signalto me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stonystranger with the words: "This is the little girl respecting whom Iapplied to you."

HE, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood,and having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyeswhich twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in abass voice, "Her size is small: what is her age?"

"Ten years."

"So much?" was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutinyfor some minutes. Presently he addressed me--"Your name, littlegirl?"

"Jane Eyre, sir."

In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tallgentleman; but then I was very little; his features were large, andthey and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.

"Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?"

Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little worldheld a contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for meby an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Perhaps the lesssaid on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst."

"Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;" andbending from the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Reed's. "Come here," he said.

I stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight beforehim. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level withmine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominentteeth!

"No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especiallya naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go afterdeath?"

"They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer.

"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"

"A pit full of fire."

"And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning therefor ever?"

"No, sir."

"What must you do to avoid it?"

I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, wasobjectionable: "I must keep in good health, and not die."

"How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you diedaily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or twosince,--a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven. It is tobe feared the same could not be said of you were you to be calledhence."

Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyesdown on the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishingmyself far enough away.

"I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of everhaving been the occasion of discomfort to your excellentbenefactress."

"Benefactress! benefactress!" said I inwardly: "they all call Mrs.Reed my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeablething."

"Do you say your prayers night and morning?" continued myinterrogator.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you read your Bible?"

"Sometimes."

"With pleasure? Are you fond of it?"

"I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel,and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles,and Job and Jonah."

"And the Psalms? I hope you like them?"

"No, sir."

"No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knowssix Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would ratherhave, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, hesays: 'Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;' says he, 'Iwish to be a little angel here below;' he then gets two nuts inrecompense for his infant piety."

"Psalms are not interesting," I remarked.

"That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God tochange it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away yourheart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."

I was about to propound a question, touching the manner in whichthat operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs.Reed interposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carryon the conversation herself.

"Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wroteto you three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite thecharacter and disposition I could wish: should you admit her intoLowood school, I should be glad if the superintendent and teacherswere requested to keep a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guardagainst her worst fault, a tendency to deceit. I mention this inyour hearing, Jane, that you may not attempt to impose on Mr.Brocklehurst."

Well might I dread, well might I dislike Mrs. Reed; for it was hernature to wound me cruelly; never was I happy in her presence;however carefully I obeyed, however strenuously I strove to pleaseher, my efforts were still repulsed and repaid by such sentences asthe above. Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut me tothe heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hopefrom the new phase of existence which she destined me to enter; Ifelt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that she wassowing aversion and unkindness along my future path; I saw myselftransformed under Mr. Brocklehurst's eye into an artful, noxiouschild, and what could I do to remedy the injury?

"Nothing, indeed," thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, andhastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.

"Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child," said Mr. Brocklehurst;"it is akin to falsehood, and all liars will have their portion inthe lake burning with fire and brimstone; she shall, however, bewatched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers."

"I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting herprospects," continued my benefactress; "to be made useful, to bekept humble: as for the vacations, she will, with your permission,spend them always at Lowood."

"Your decisions are perfectly judicious, madam," returned Mr.Brocklehurst. "Humility is a Christian grace, and one peculiarlyappropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore, direct thatespecial care shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them. Ihave studied how best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment ofpride; and, only the other day, I had a pleasing proof of mysuccess. My second daughter, Augusta, went with her mama to visitthe school, and on her return she exclaimed: 'Oh, dear papa, howquiet and plain all the girls at Lowood look, with their hair combedbehind their ears, and their long pinafores, and those littleholland pockets outside their frocks--they are almost like poorpeople's children! and,' said she, 'they looked at my dress andmama's, as if they had never seen a silk gown before.'"

"This is the state of things I quite approve," returned Mrs. Reed;"had I sought all England over, I could scarcely have found a systemmore exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency, my dearMr. Brocklehurst; I advocate consistency in all things."

"Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it hasbeen observed in every arrangement connected with the establishmentof Lowood: plain fare, simple attire, unsophisticatedaccommodations, hardy and active habits; such is the order of theday in the house and its inhabitants."

"Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being receivedas a pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to herposition and prospects?"

"Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of chosenplants, and I trust she will show herself grateful for theinestimable privilege of her election."

"I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for,I assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility thatwas becoming too irksome."

"No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. Ishall return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two:my good friend, the Archdeacon, will not permit me to leave himsooner. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a newgirl, so that there will he no difficulty about receiving her.Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and MissBrocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and Master BroughtonBrocklehurst."

"I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the 'Child'sGuide,' read it with prayer, especially that part containing 'Anaccount of the awfully sudden death of Martha G -, a naughty childaddicted to falsehood and deceit.'"

With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphletsewn in a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence;she was sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed might be at that timesome six or seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust frame,square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout,not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being muchdeveloped and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large andprominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her lighteyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was dark andopaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as abell--illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager;her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control; herchildren only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn;she dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set offhandsome attire.

Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examinedher figure; I perused her features. In my hand I held the tractcontaining the sudden death of the Liar, to which narrative myattention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning. What hadjust passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me to Mr.Brocklehurst; the whole tenor of their conversation, was recent,raw, and stinging in my mind; I had felt every word as acutely as Ihad heard it plainly, and a passion of resentment fomented nowwithin me.

Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine, herfingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements.

"Go out of the room; return to the nursery," was her mandate. Mylook or something else must have struck her as offensive, for shespoke with extreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I wentto the door; I came back again; I walked to the window, across theroom, then close up to her.

SPEAK I must: I had been trodden on severely, and MUST turn: buthow? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? Igathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence -

"I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but Ideclare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody inthe world except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you maygive to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and notI."

Mrs. Reed's hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of icecontinued to dwell freezingly on mine.

"What more have you to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in whicha person might address an opponent of adult age than such as isordinarily used to a child.

That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shakingfrom head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, Icontinued -

"I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you auntagain as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I amgrown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how youtreated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, andthat you treated me with miserable cruelty."

"How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?"

"How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the TRUTH. Youthink I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of loveor kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shallremember how you thrust me back--roughly and violently thrust meback--into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day;though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating withdistress, 'Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!' And that punishmentyou made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me--knocked medown for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, thisexact tale. People think you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. YOU are deceitful!"

Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult,with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. Itseemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggledout into unhoped-for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment:Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; shewas lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and eventwisting her face as if she would cry.

"Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Whydo you tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?"

"No, Mrs. Reed."

"Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desireto be your friend."

"Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, adeceitful disposition; and I'll let everybody at Lowood know whatyou are, and what you have done."

"Jane, you don't understand these things: children must becorrected for their faults."

"Deceit is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice.

"But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow: and now returnto the nursery--there's a dear--and lie down a little."

"I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon,Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here."

"I will indeed send her to school soon," murmured Mrs. Reed sottovoce; and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment.

I was left there alone--winner of the field. It was the hardestbattle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stoodawhile on the rug, where Mr. Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyedmy conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate;but this fierce pleasure subsided in me as fast as did theaccelerated throb of my pulses. A child cannot quarrel with itselders, as I had done; cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolledplay, as I had given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pangof remorse and the chill of reaction. A ridge of lighted heath,alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a meet emblem of my mindwhen I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed: the same ridge, black andblasted after the flames are dead, would have represented as meetlymy subsequent condition, when half-an-hour's silence and reflectionhad shown me the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness of myhated and hating position.

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromaticwine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour,metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had beenpoisoned. Willingly would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed'spardon; but I knew, partly from experience and partly from instinct,that was the way to make her repulse me with double scorn, therebyre-exciting every turbulent impulse of my nature.

I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fiercespeaking; fain find nourishment for some less fiendish feeling thanthat of sombre indignation. I took a book--some Arabian tales; Isat down and endeavoured to read. I could make no sense of thesubject; my own thoughts swam always between me and the page I hadusually found fascinating. I opened the glass-door in thebreakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frostreigned, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I coveredmy head and arms with the skirt of my frock, and went out to walk ina part of the plantation which was quite sequestrated; but I foundno pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, thecongealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds inheaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate, andlooked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where theshort grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a mostopaque sky, "onding on snaw," canopied all; thence flakes felt itintervals, which settled on the hard path and on the hoary leawithout melting. I stood, a wretched child enough, whispering tomyself over and over again, "What shall I do?--what shall I do?"

All at once I heard a clear voice call, "Miss Jane! where are you?Come to lunch!"

It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her lightstep came tripping down the path.

"You naughty little thing!" she said. "Why don't you come when youare called?"

Bessie's presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had beenbrooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhatcross. The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs.Reed, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid's transitoryanger; and I WAS disposed to bask in her youthful lightness ofheart. I just put my two arms round her and said, "Come, Bessie!don't scold."

The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated toindulge in: somehow it pleased her.

"You are a strange child, Miss Jane," she said, as she looked downat me; "a little roving, solitary thing: and you are going toschool, I suppose?"

I nodded.

"And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?"

"What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me."

"Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. Youshould be bolder."

"What! to get more knocks?"

"Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that's certain. My mothersaid, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like alittle one of her own to be in your place.--Now, come in, and I'vesome good news for you."

"I don't think you have, Bessie."

"Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well,but Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to teathis afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll ask cook tobake you a little cake, and then you shall help me to look over yourdrawers; for I am soon to pack your trunk. Missis intends you toleave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys youlike to take with you."

"Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go."

"Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don't beafraid of me. Don't start when I chance to speak rather sharply;it's so provoking."

"I don't think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie, becauseI have got used to you, and I shall soon have another set of peopleto dread."

"If you dread them they'll dislike you."

"As you do, Bessie?"

"I don't dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of allthe others."

"You don't show it."

"You little sharp thing! you've got quite a new way of talking.What makes you so venturesome and hardy?"

"Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides"--I was going tosay something about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed, but onsecond thoughts I considered it better to remain silent on thathead.

"And so you're glad to leave me?"

"Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I'm rather sorry."

"Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I daresay now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn't give it me:you'd say you'd RATHER not."

"I'll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down." Bessie stooped;we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quitecomforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in theevening Bessie told me some of her most enchaining stories, and sangme some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams ofsunshine.