"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 an 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
