"Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child; the other--" she stopped. "After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps," she murmured to herself: "and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful."

     She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to experience 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."