“What I am, you have made me, Agnes. You should know best.”

“ I made you, Trotwood?”

“Yes! Agnes, my dear girl!” I said, bending over her. “I tried to tell you, when we met today, something that has been in my thoughts since Dora died. You remember, when you came down to me in our little room⁠—pointing upward, Agnes?”

“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.