"And what did he say? Who has his letters?"

"Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from Mr. Rochester，but from a lady: it is signed "Alice Fairfax.""

I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true: he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings- what object for his strong passions- had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh，my poor master- once almost my husband- whom I had often called "my dear Edward!"

"He must have been a bad man," observed Mr. Rivers.

"You don"t know him- don"t pronounce an opinion upon him," I said，with warmth.

"Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise occupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won"t ask the governess"s name，I must tell it of my own accord.

Stay! I have it here- it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down，fairly mitted to black and white."

And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced，opened，sought through; from one of its partments was extracted a shabby slip of paper，hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine，and lake，and vermilion，the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He got up，held it close to my eyes: and I read，traced in Indian ink，in my own handwriting，the words "JANE EYRE"- the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.

"Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said，"the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.- I confess I had my suspicions，but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the alias?"

"Yes- yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do."