Jane Eyre

as a good girl, and you will satisfy me.«
    »Shall I, Miss Temple?«
    »You will,« said she passing her arm round me. »And now tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?«
    »Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care.«
    »Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?«
    »No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died, that she would always keep me.«
    »Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory suggests as true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.«
    I resolved in the depth of my heart that I would be most moderate: most correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.
    In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the red-room; in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.
    I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she then said, –
    »I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation; to me, Jane, you are clear now.«
    She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns.
    »How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?«
    »Not quite so much I think, ma'am.«
    »And the pain in your chest?«
    »It is a little better.«
    Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully: –
    »But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such.« She rang her bell.
    »Barbara,« she said to the servant who answered it, »I have not yet had tea; bring the tray, and place cups for these two young ladies.«
    And a tray was soon brought. How pretty to my eyes, did the china cups and bright tea pot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry), discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too: –
    »Barbara,« said she, »can you not bring a little more bread and butter? There is not enough for three.«
    Barbara went out: she returned soon: –
    »Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity.«
    Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts whalebone and iron.
    »Oh, very well!« returned Miss Temple; »we must make it do, Barbara, I suppose.« And as the girl withdrew, she added, smiling, »Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once.«
    Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.
    »I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,« said she; »but as there is so little toast you must have it now,« and she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.
    We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least delight of the entertainment was the