FOR several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he seemed much engaged with business，and，in the afternoon，gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called，and sometimes stayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse exercise，he rode out a good deal; probably to return these visits，as he generally did not e back till late at night.

During this interval，even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence，and all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional rencontre in the hall，on the stairs，or in the gallery，when he would sometimes pass me haughtily and coldly，just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance，and sometimes bow and smile with gentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood did not offend me，because I saw that I had nothing to do with their alternation; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite disconnected with me.

One day he had had pany to dinner，and had sent for my portfolio; in order，doubtless，to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went away early，to attend a public meeting at Millcote，as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but the night being wet and inclement，Mr. Rochester did not acpany them. Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message came that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed Adele"s hair and made her neat，and having ascertained that I was myself in my usual Quaker trim，where there was nothing to retouch- all being too close and plain，braided locks included，to admit of disarrangement- we descended，Adele wondering whether the petit coffre was at length e; for，owing to some mistake，its arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified: there it stood，a little carton，on the table when we entered the dining-room. She appeared to know it by instinct.

"Ma boite! ma boite!" exclaimed she，running towards it.