smell of damp earth, and wet leaves and briar, and the sensation of the very airs that blew upon me in my own toilsome journey.

The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made me start and turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as she came towards me. She stopped and laid her hand upon her bosom, and I caught her in my arms.

“Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you.”

“No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood!”

“Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me, to see you once again!”

I folded her to my heart, and, for a little while, we were both silent. Presently we sat down, side by side; and her angel-face was turned upon me with the welcome I had dreamed of, waking and sleeping, for whole years.

She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good,—I owed her so much gratitude, she was so dear to me, that I could find no utterance for what I felt. I tried to bless her, tried to thank her, tried to tell her (as I had often done in letters) what an influence she had upon me; but all my efforts were in vain. My love and joy were dumb.

With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agitation; led me back to the time of our parting; spoke to me of Emily, whom she had visited, in secret, many times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora’s grave. With the unerring instinct of her noble heart, she touched the chords of my memory so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred within me; I could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrink from nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, was her dear self, the better angel of my life?

“And you, Agnes,” I said, by and by. “Tell me of yourself. You have hardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time!”

“What should I tell?” she answered, with her radiant smile. “Papa is well. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest, our home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, you know all.”

“All, Agnes?” said I.

She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face.

“Is there nothing else, Sister?” I said.

Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again. She smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head.

I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply painful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to discipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she was uneasy, and I let it pass.

“You have much to do, dear Agnes?”

“With my school?” said she, looking up again, in all her bright composure.

“Yes. It is laborious, is it not?”

“The labour is so pleasant,” she returned, “that it is scarcely grateful in me to call it by that name.”