She looked so quiet and good, and reminded me so strongly of my airy fresh school days at Canterbury, and the sodden, smoky, stupid wretch I had been the other night, that, nobody being by, I yielded to my self-reproach and shame, and⁠—in short, made a fool of myself. I cannot deny that I shed tears. To this hour I am undecided whether it was upon the whole the wisest thing I could have done, or the most ridiculous.

“If it had been anyone but you, Agnes,” said I, turning away my head, “I should not have minded it half so much. But that it should have been you who saw me! I almost wish I had been dead, first.”

She put her hand⁠—its touch was like no other hand⁠—upon my arm for a moment; and I felt so befriended and comforted, that I could not help moving it to my lips, and gratefully kissing it.

“Sit down,” said Agnes, cheerfully. “Don’t be unhappy, Trotwood. If you cannot confidently trust me, whom will you trust?”

“Ah, Agnes!” I returned. “You are my good Angel!”