“No, not a syllable!” she answers, kissing me. “Oh, my dear, you never deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to you, in earnest⁠—it was all the merit I had, except being pretty⁠—or you thought me so. Is it lonely, downstairs, Doady?”

“Very! Very!”

“Don’t cry! Is my chair there?”

“In its old place.”

“Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come⁠—not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite alone.”

I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief.