But I，and the rest who continued well，enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood，like gipsies，from morning till night; we did what we liked，went where we liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross housekeeper was gone，driven away by the fear of infection; her successor，who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary，unused to the ways of her new abode，provided with parative liberality.

Besides，there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner，which often happened，she would give us a large piece of cold pie，or a thick slice of bread and cheese，and this we carried away with us to the wood，where we each chose the spot we liked best，and dined sumptuously.

My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone，rising white and dry from the very middle of the beck，and only to be got at by wading through the water; a feat I acplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to acmodate，fortably，another girl and me，at that time my chosen rade- one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd，observant personage，whose society I took pleasure in，partly because she was witty and original，and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I，she knew more of the world，and could tell me many things I liked to hear: with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults also she gave ample indulgence，never imposing curb or rein on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative，I for analysis; she liked to inform，I to question; so we got on swimmingly together，deriving much entertainment，if not much improvement，from our mutual intercourse.