Now and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed.  I think those day visions were not dark:  there was a pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding:  your look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal heaven.  The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the hall, wakened you:  and how curiously you smiled to and at yourself, Janet!  There was much sense in your smile:  it was very shrewd, and seemed to make light of your own abstraction.  It seemed to say —­ ’My fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are absolutely unreal.  I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter.’  You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation:  the weekly house accounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think it was.  I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight.

“Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my presence.  An unusual —­ to me —­ a perfectly new character I suspected was yours:  I desired to search it deeper and know it better.  You entered the room with a look and air at once shy and independent:  you were quaintly dressed —­ much as you are now.  I made you talk:  ere long I found you full of strange contrasts.  Your garb and manner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your interlocutor’s face:  there was penetration and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers.  Very soon you seemed to get used to me:  I believe you felt the existence of sympathy between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your manner:  snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe.  I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw:  I liked what I had seen, and wished to see more.  Yet, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely.  I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance:  besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade —­ the sweet charm of freshness would leave it.  I did not then