dining-room. She appeared to know it by instinct.
"Ma boîte! ma boîte!" exclaimed she, running towards it.
"Yes—there is your 'boîte' at last: take it into a corner, you genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling it," said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the depths of an immense easy-chair at the fire-side. "And mind," he continued, "don't bother me with any details of the anatomical process, or any notice of the condition of the entrails: let your operation be conducted in silence—tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?"
Adèle seemed scarcely to need the warning; she had already retired to a sofa with her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which secured the lid. Having removed this impediment, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed:—
"Oh, Ciel! Que c'est beau!" and then remained absorbed in ecstatic contemplation.
"Is Miss Eyre, there?" now demanded the
