ed to to  or reprimand in former days. I ened before Bessie; I softly opened t stood on table, for it ting dark. t four-post bed oilet- table, tstool, at enced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, ing to see tline of a once dreaded sco lurk ting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or sains and leant over the high-piled pillows.

    ell did I remember Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly soug is a  time quells tings of rage and aversion. I  tterness and e, and I came back to ion t of rut sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries—to be reconciled and clasp y.

    tern, relentless as ever—t peculiar eye  raised, imperious, despotic eyebroraced its  I stooped down and kissed  me.

    “Is this Jane Eyre?” she said.

    “Yes, Aunt Reed. ?”

    I  I  it no sin to forget and break t vo:  t moment rue pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipated. Mrs. Reed took urning  t  once t oo tenderness, indissoluble to tears—t so consider me bad to t; because to believe me good ion.

    I felt pain, and t ire; and t a determination to subdue o be ress in spite boture and ears  as in co t a co t dohe pillow.

    “You sent for me,” I said, “and I am  is my intention to stay till I see  on.”

    “Oers?”

    “Yes.”

    “ell, you may tell to stay till I can talk some to-nig is too late, and I y in recalling t to say—let me see—”