“Oh, Trotwood!” she returned, her eyes filled with tears. “So loving, so confiding, and so young! Can I ever forget?”
“As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, you have ever been to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever leading me to something better; ever directing me to higher things!”
She only shook her head; through her tears I saw the same sad quiet smile.
“And I am so grateful to you for it, Agnes, so bound to you, that there is no name for the affection of my heart. I want you to know, yet don’t know how to tell you, that all my life long I shall look up to you, and be guided by you, as I have been through the darkness that is past. Whatever betides, whatever new ties you may form, whatever changes may come between us, I shall always look to you, and love you, as I do now, and have always done. You will always be my solace and resource, as you have always been. Until I die, my dearest sister, I shall see you always before me, pointing upward!”
She put her hand in mine, and told me she was proud of me, and of what I said; although I praised her very far beyond her worth. Then she went on softly playing, but without removing her eyes from me. “Do you know, what I have heard tonight, Agnes,” said I, “strangely seems to be a part of the feeling with which I regarded you when I saw you first—with which I sat beside you in my rough schooldays?”
“You knew I had no mother,” she replied with a smile, “and felt kindly towards me.”
“More than that, Agnes, I knew, almost as if I had known this story, that there was something inexplicably gentle and softened, surrounding you; something that might have been sorrowful in someone else (as I can now understand it was), but was not so in you.”