Edward!”

    “ have been a bad man,” observed Mr. Rivers.

    “You don’t know  pronounce an opinion upon h.

    “Very o finis ask t tell it of my oay! I   is alisfactory to see important points ten doted to black and we.”

    And t-book ely produced, opened, sougs compartments racted a sily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, trait-cover.  up,  close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my oless of some moment of abstraction.

    “Briggs e to me of a Jane Eyre:” isements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knet.—I confess I  it erday afternoon t once resolved into certainty. You ohe alias?”

    “Yes—yes; but han you do.”

    “Briggs is in London. I s  all about Mr. Rocer; it is not in Mr. Rocer erested. Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire er you—h you.”

    “ell, w did ?”

    “Merely to tell you t your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; t  you all y, and t you are nohing more.”

    “I!—rich?”

    “Yes, you, rice an heiress.”

    Silence succeeded.

    “You must prove your identity of course,” resumed St. Joly: “a step er on immediate possession. Your fortune is vested in ts.”

    urned up! It is a fine to be lifted in a moment from indigence to  not a matter one can comprely enjoy, all at once. And ture-giving: tual  it: all its associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are t jump, and spring, and s   a fortune; one