228
THE LARK
glanced through the crack of the drawing-room door. Yes, there she was, close to the door from the library. Jane crept quietly through the room where John Rochester was to-day fortunately not working, came behind the seated figure, and smote it violently on the back, crying, "Oh no, you don't, old girl!" and her hands were raised to tear off Lucilla's disguise—not a bonnet this time, but a hat, and quite a smart one—when the smitten figure, having risen, turned, staggering, revealing to the stricken Jane the infuriated countenance of a perfect stranger.
This time it really was Mrs. Rochester.
