The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that quiet ground in my memory, pervaded it again. When dinner was done, Mr. Wickfield taking no wine, and I desiring none, we went upstairs; where Agnes and her little charges sang and played, and worked. After tea the children left us; and we three sat together, talking of the bygone days.

“My part in them,” said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white head, “has much matter for regret⁠—for deep regret, and deep contrition, Trotwood, you well know. But I would not cancel it, if it were in my power.”

I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside him.

“I should cancel with it,” he pursued, “such patience and devotion, such fidelity, such a child’s love, as I must not forget, no! even to forget myself.”