As I looked at her beautiful face, observant of her work, she raised her mild clear eyes, and saw that I was looking at her.

“You are thoughtful to-day, Trotwood!”

“Agnes, shall I tell you what about? I came to tell you.”

She put aside her work, as she was used to do when we were seriously discussing anything; and gave me her whole attention.

“My dear Agnes, do you doubt my being true to you?”

“No!” she answered, with a look of astonishment.

“Do you doubt my being what I always have been to you?”

“No!” she answered, as before.

“Do you remember that I tried to tell you, when I came home, what a debt of gratitude I owed you, dearest Agnes, and how fervently I felt towards you?”

“I remember it,” she said, gently, “very well.”

“You have a secret,” said I. “Let me share it, Agnes.”

She cast down her eyes, and trembled.

“I could hardly fail to know, even if I had not heard—but from other lips than yours, Agnes, which seems strange—that there is some one upon whom you have bestowed the treasure of your love. Do not shut me out of what concerns your happiness so nearly! If you can trust me, as you say you can, and as I know you may, let me be your friend, your brother, in this matter, of all others!”

With an appealing, almost a reproachful, glance, she rose from the window; and hurrying across the room as if without knowing where, put her hands before her face, and burst into such tears as smote me to the heart.

And yet they awakened something in me, bringing promise to my heart. Without my knowing why, these tears allied themselves with the quietly sad smile which was so fixed in my remembrance, and shook me more with hope than fear or sorrow.

“Agnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done?”

“Let me go away, Trotwood. I am not well. I am not myself. I will speak to you by and by—another time. I will write to you. Don’t speak to me now. Don’t! don’t!”

I sought to recollect what she had said, when I had spoken to her on that former night, of her affection needing no return. It seemed a very world that I must search through in a moment.

“Agnes, I cannot bear to see you so, and think that I have been the cause. My dearest girl, dearer to me than anything in life, if you are unhappy, let me share your unhappiness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try to give it to you. If you have indeed a burden on your heart, let me try to lighten it. For whom do I live now, Agnes, if it is not for you?”

“Oh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!” was all I could distinguish.

Was it a selfish error that was leading me away? Or, having once a clue to hope, was there something opening to me that I had not dared to think of?