I sat beside her on the window-seat, and we talked of what I was doing, and when it would be done, and of the progress I had made since my last visit. Agnes was very cheerful; and laughingly predicted that I should soon become too famous to be talked to, on such subjects.
“So I make the most of the present time, you see,” said Agnes, “and talk to you while I may.”
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 today, 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.