one knows you or your name."

"But, papa, I don't think it will be a loss; no more will you, if
you will just let me read you a review or two, and tell you more
about it."

So she sate down and read some of the reviews to her father; and
then, giving him the copy of "Jane Eyre" that she intended for
him, she left him to read it. When he came in to tea, he said,
"Girls, do you know Charlotte has been writing a book, and it is
much better than likely?"

But while the existence of Currer Bell, the author, was like a
piece of a dream to the quiet inhabitants of Haworth Parsonage,
who went on with their uniform household life,--their cares for
their brother being its only variety,--the whole reading-world of
England was in a ferment to discover the unknown author. Even the
publishers of "Jane Eyre" were ignorant whether Currer Bell was a
real or an assumed name,--whether it belonged to a man or a
woman. In every town people sought out the list of their friends
and acquaintances, and turned away in disappointment. No one they
knew had genius enough to be the author. Every little incident
mentioned in the book was turned this way and that to answer, if
possible, the much-vexed question of sex. All in vain. People
were content to relax their exertions to satisfy their curiosity,
and simply to sit down and greatly admire.

I am not going to write an analysis of a book with which every
one who reads this biography is sure to be acquainted; much less
a criticism upon a work, which the great flood of public opinion