"To the right-about- every soul!" cried the master; "away with your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I!- they are fifteen years too late!"

He passed on and ascended the stairs，still holding my hand，and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him，which they did. We mounted the first staircase，passed up the gallery，proceeded to the third storey: the low，black door，opened by Mr. Rochester"s master-key，admitted us to the tapestried room，with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.

"You know this place，Mason," said our guide; "she bit and stabbed you here."

He lifted the hangings from the wall，uncovering the second door: this，too，he opened. In a room without a window，there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender，and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace poole bent over the fire，apparently cooking something in a saucepan. In the deep shade，at the farther end of the room，a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was，whether beast or human being，one could not，at first sight，tell: it grovelled，seemingly，on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing，and a quantity of dark，grizzled hair，wild as a mane，hid its head and face.

"Good-morrow，Mrs. poole!" said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and how is your charge to-day?"

"We"re tolerable，sir，I thank you," replied Grace，lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish，but not "rageous."

A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed hyena rose up，and stood tall on its hind-feet.