I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady appeared at the door.

“What! out already?” said she.  “I see you are an early riser.”  I went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand.

“How do you like Thornfield?” she asked.  I told her I liked it very much.

“Yes,” she said, “it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener:  great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor.”

“Mr. Rochester!” I exclaimed.  “Who is he?”

“The owner of Thornfield,” she responded quietly.  “Did you not know he was called Rochester?”

Of course I did not —­ I had never heard of him before; but the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

“I thought,” I continued, “Thornfield belonged to you.”

“To me?  Bless you, child; what an idea!  To me!  I am only the housekeeper —­ the manager.  To be sure I am distantly related to the Rochesters by the mother’s side, or at least my husband was; he was a clergyman, incumbent of Hay —­ that little village yonder on the hill —­ and that church near the gates was his.  The present Mr. Rochester’s mother was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my husband:  but I never presume on the connection —­ in fact, it is nothing to me; I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper:  my employer is always civil, and I expect nothing more.”

“And the little girl —­ my pupil!”

“She is Mr. Rochester’s ward; he commissioned me to find a governess for her.  He intended to have her brought up in -shire, I believe.  Here she comes, with her ‘bonne,’ as she calls her nurse.”  The enigma then was explained:  this affable and kind little widow was no great dame; but a dependant like myself.  I did not like her the worse for that; on the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever.  The equality between her and me was real; not the mere result of condescension on her part:  so much the better —­ my position was all the freer.

As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by her attendant, came running up the lawn.  I looked at my pupil, who did not at first appear to notice me:  she was quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly built, with a pale, small-featured face, and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.

“Good morning, Miss Adela,” said Mrs. Fairfax.  “Come and speak to the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day.”  She approached.