rience some inward sensation—the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.
"Well: I must get it over. Eternity is "before me: I had better tell her. Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there."
I obeyed her directions. "Read the letter," she said.
It was short, and thus conceived:—
"Madam,
"Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is: it is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave."
"I am, Madam, &c. &c.
"John Eyre, Madeira."
It was dated three years back.
"Why did I never hear of this?" I asked.
"Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your con-
