nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed's bed room, she said, "Will you go in and bid Missis good-bye?"
"No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to supper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins either; and she told me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly."
"What did you say, miss?"
"Nothing: I covered my face with the bed-clothes, and turned from her to the wall."
"That was wrong, Miss Jane."
"It was quite right, Bessie: your Missis has not been my friend; she has been my foe."
"Oh, Miss Jane! don't say so!"
"Good-bye to Gateshead!" cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at the front door.
The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was the winter morning; my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter's lodge; when we reached it we found the porter's wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening before, stood corded at
