"Mrs. poole," said she，addressing Grace，"the servants" dinner will soon be ready: will you e down?"

"No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray，and I"ll carry it upstairs."

"You"ll have some meat?"

"Just a morsel，and a taste of cheese，that"s all."

"And the sago?"

"Never mind it at present: I shall be ing down before tea-time: I"ll make it myself."

The cook here turned to me，saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me: so I departed.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax"s account of the curtain conflagration during dinner，so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace poole，and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning，or，at the very least，dismissed from her master"s service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me，too，to secrecy? It was strange: a bold，vindictive，and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependants; so much in her power，that even when she lifted her hand against his life，he dared not openly charge her with the attempt，much less punish her for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome，I should have been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf; but，hard-favoured and matronly as she was，the idea could not be admitted. "Yet," I reflected，"she has been young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master"s: Mrs. Fairfax told me once，she had lived here many years. I don"t think she can ever have been pretty; but，for aught I know，she may possess originality and strength of character to pensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power，and she now exercises over his actions a secret influence，the result of his own indiscretion，which he cannot shake off，and dare not disregard?" But，having reached this point of conjecture，Mrs. poole"s square，flat figure，and unely，dry，even coarse face，recurred so distinctly to my mind"s eye，that I thought，"No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet," suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts，"you are not beautiful either，and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any rate，you have often felt as if he did; and last night- remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!"

I well remembered all; language，glance，and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Adele was drawing; I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.