In such conversation an hour was soon gone:  Bessie restored to me my bonnet, &c., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall.  It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending.  On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart —­ a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation —­ to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood:  that bourne so far away and unexplored.  The same hostile roof now again rose before me:  my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart.  I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression.  The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished.

“You shall go into the breakfast-room first,” said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; “the young ladies will be there.”

In another moment I was within that apartment.  There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst:  the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth.  Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick’s British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver’s Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above.  The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.

Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram —­ very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien.  There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix.  This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.

The other was as certainly Georgiana:  but not the Georgiana I remembered —­ the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven.  This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.  The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister’s —­ so much more flowing and becoming —­ it looked as stylish as the other’s looked puritanical.

In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother —­ and only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent’s Cairngorm eye:  the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin —­ perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom.