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"Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods not to abuse it."

"You are human and fallible."

"I am: so are you-what then?"

"The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted."

"What power?"

"That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,-'Let it be right.'"

"'Let it be right'-the very words: you have pronounced them."

"May it be right then," I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides, sensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration; at least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity, which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.

"Where are you going?"

"To put Adèle to bed: it is past her bedtime."

"You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx."

"Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered, I am certainly not afraid."

"You are afraid-your self-love dreads a blunder."

"In that sense I do feel apprehensive-I have no wish to talk nonsense."

"If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake it for sense.

Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't trouble yourself to answer-I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious.

The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother-or father, or master, or what you will-to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now.

I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.

You are still bent on going?"

"It has struck nine, sir."

"Never mind,-wait a minute: Adèle is not ready to go to bed yet.

My position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room, favours observation.

While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched Adèle (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious study,-reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day).

She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones.

Il faut que je l'essaie!' cried she, 'et à l'instant même!' and she rushed out of the room.

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