Trotwood, but of her mother, and of her. If I give you any clue to what I am, or to what I have been, you will unravel it, I know. What Agnes is, I need not say. I have always read something of her poor mother’s story, in her character; and so I tell it you tonight, when we three are again together, after such great changes. I have told it all.”
His bowed head, and her angel-face and filial duty, derived a more pathetic meaning from it than they had had before. If I had wanted anything by which to mark this night of our reunion, I should have found it in this.
Agnes rose up from her father’s side, before long; and going softly to her piano, played some of the old airs to which we had