surely his fortune, which hitherto had procured him all he wished
(except health and happiness) could buy him a wife, when his friends
made better bargains every day. So, having settled the question, he
came home again, and every one said the trip had done him a world of
good.

Christie sat in her favorite nook one bright September morning, with
the inevitable children hunting hapless crabs in a pool near by. A
book lay on her knee, but she was not reading; her eyes were looking
far across the blue waste before her with an eager gaze, and her
face was bright with some happy thought. The sound of approaching
steps disturbed her reverie, and, recognizing them, she plunged into
the heart of the story, reading as if utterly absorbed, till a
shadow fell athwart the page, and the voice she had expected to hear
asked blandly:

"What book now, Miss Devon?"

"'Jane Eyre,' sir."

Mr. Fletcher sat down just where her hat-brim was no screen, pulled
off his gloves, and leisurely composed himself for a comfortable
lounge.

"What is your opinion of Rochester?" he asked, presently.

"Not a very high one."

"Then you think Jane was a fool to love and try to make a saint of
him, I suppose?"