"None that I ever heard of," returned Mrs. Fairfax，smiling.

"Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?"

"I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps，though，that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now."

"Yes- "after life"s fitful fever they sleep well,"" I muttered.

"Where are you going now，Mrs. Fairfax?" for she was moving away.

"On to the leads; will you e and see the view from thence?" I followed still，up a very narrow staircase to the attics，and thence by a ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on a level with the crow colony，and could see into their nests.

Leaning over the battlements and looking far down，I surveyed the grounds laid out like a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey base of the mansion; the field，wide as a park，dotted with its ancient timber; the wood，dun and sere，divided by a path visibly overgrown，greener with moss than the trees were with foliage; the church at the gates，the road，the tranquil hills，all reposing in the autumn day"s sun; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky，azure，marbled with pearly white. No feature in the scene was extraordinary，but all was pleasing. When I turned from it and repassed the trap-door，I could scarcely see my way down the ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault pared with that arch of blue air to which I had been looking up，and to that sunlit scene of grove，pasture，and green hill，of which the hall was the centre，and over which I had been gazing with delight.

Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I，by dint of groping，found the outlet from the attic，and proceeded to descend the narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which this led，separating the front and back rooms of the third storey: narrow，low，and dim，with only one little window at the far end，and looking，with its two rows of small black doors all shut，like a corridor in some Bluebeard"s castle.