"Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!" said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and how is your charge to-day?"

     "We're tolerable, sir, I thank you," replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not 'rageous."

     A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.

     "Ah! sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not stay."

     "Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments."

     "Take care then, sir!--for God's sake, take care!"

     The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face,--those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.

     "Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: "she has no knife now, I suppose, and I'm on my guard."

     "One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft."

     "We had better leave her," whispered Mason.