cripture；　when　the　sound　of　a　cough　close　behind　me　made　me　turn　my　head。　I　saw　a　girl　sitting　on　a　stone　bench　near；　she　was　bent　over　a　book；　on　the　perusal　of　which　she　seemed　intent：　from　where　I　stood　I　could　see　the　title—it　was　Rasselas；　a　name　that　struck　me　as　strange；　and　consequently　attractive。　In　turning　a　leaf　she　happened　to　look　up；　and　I　said　to　her　directly—

“Is　your　book　interesting？”　I　had　already　formed　the　intention　of　asking　her　to　lend　it　to　me　some　day。

“I　like　it；”　she　answered；　after　a　pause　of　a　second　or　two；　during　which　she　examined　me。

“What　is　it　about？”　I　continued。　I　hardly　know　where　I　found　the　hardihood　thus　to　open　a　conversation　with　a　stranger；　the　step　was　contrary　to　my　nature　and　habits：　but　I　think　her　occupation　touched　a　chord　of　sympathy　somewhere；　for　I　too　liked　reading；　though　of　a　frivolous　and　childish　kind；　I　could　not　digest　or　prehend　the　serious　or　substantial。

“You　may　look　at　it；”　replied　the　girl；　offering　me　the　book。

I　did　so；　a　brief　examination　convinced　me　that　the　contents　were　less　taking　than　the　title：　Rasselas　looked　dull　to　my　trifling　taste；　I　saw　nothing　about　fairies；　nothing　about　genii；　no　bright　variety　seemed　spread　over　the　closely…printed　pages。　I　returned　it　to　her；　she　received　it　quietly；　and　without　saying　anything　she　was　about　to　relapse　into　her　former　studious　mood：　again　I　ventured　to　disturb　her—

“Can　you　tell　me　what　the　writing　on　that　stone　over　the　door　means？　What　is　Lowood　Institution？”

“This　house　where　you　are　e　to　live。”

“And　why　do　they　call　it　Institution？　Is　it　in　any　way　different　from　other　schools？”

“It　is　partly　a　charity…school：　you　and　I；　and　all　the　rest　of　us；　are　charity…children。　I　suppose　you　are