She entered，transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of rose-coloured satin，very short，and as full in the skirt as it could be gathered，replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals.

"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she，bounding forwards; "et mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez，je crois que je vais danser!"

And spreading out her dress，she chasseed across the room; till，having reached Mr. Rochester，she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe，then dropped on one knee at his feet，exclaiming- "Monsieur，je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte; then rising，she added，"C"est me cela que maman faisait，n"est-ce pas，monsieur?"

"pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and，"me cella," she charmed my English gold out of my British breeches" pocket. I have been green，too，Miss Eyre- ay，grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me. My Spring is gone，however，but it has left me that French floweret on my hands，which，in some moods，I would fain be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure，I have but half a liking to the blossom，especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins，great or small，by one good work. I"ll explain all this some day. Good-night."