With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agitation; led me back to the time of our parting; spoke to me of Emily, whom she had visited, in secret, many times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora’s grave. With the unerring instinct of her noble heart, she touched the chords of my memory so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred within me; I could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrink from nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, was her dear self, the better angel of my life?

“And you, Agnes,” I said, by and by. “Tell me of yourself. You have hardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time!”

“What should I tell?” she answered, with her radiant smile. “Papa is well. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest, our home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, you know all.”

“All, Agnes?” said I.

She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face.