When we left the dining-room she proposed to show me over the rest of the house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs，admiring as I went; for all was well arranged and handsome. The large front chambers I thought especially grand: and some of the third-storey rooms，though dark and low，were interesting from their air of antiquity. The furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments had from time to time been removed here，as fashions changed: and the imperfect light entering by their narrow casement showed bed-steads of a hundred years old; chests in oak or walnut，looking，with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs" heads，like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs，high-backed and narrow; stools still more antiquated，on whose cushioned tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries，wrought by fingers that for two generations had been coffin-dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a home of the past: a shrine of memory. I liked the hush，the gloom，the quaintness of these retreats in the day; but I by no means coveted a night"s repose on one of those wide and heavy beds: shut in，some of them，with doors of oak; shaded，others，with wrought old English hangings crusted with thick work，portraying effigies of strange flowers，and stranger birds，and strangest human beings,- all which would have looked strange，indeed，by the pallid gleam of moonlight.

"Do the servants sleep in these rooms?" I asked.

"No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no one ever sleeps here: one would almost say that，if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall，this would be its haunt."

"So I think: you have no ghost，then?"