It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, so caressed by him.
"Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty," said he: "truly pretty this morning.

Is this my pale, little elf?
Is this my mustard- seed?
This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes ?" (I had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they were new-dyed, I suppose.) "It is Jane Eyre, sir." "Soon to be Jane Rochester," he added: "in four weeks, Janet; not a day more.

Do you hear that ?" I did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me giddy.

The feeling, the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than was consistent with joy--something that smote and stunned.

It was, I think almost fear.
"You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for ?" "Because you gave me a new name--Jane Rochester; and it seems so strange." "Yes, Mrs.Rochester," said he; "young Mrs.Rochester--Fairfax Rochester's girl-bride." "It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely.