“Ah! I see!” said my aunt. “Ambition, love of approbation, sympathy, and much more, I suppose? Well: go along with you!”

“Do you know anything more,” said I, standing composedly before her⁠—she had patted me on the shoulder, and sat down in my chair⁠—“of that attachment of Agnes?”

She looked up in my face a little while, before replying:

“I think I do, Trot.”

“Are you confirmed in your impression?” I inquired.

“I think I am, Trot.”

She looked so steadfastly at me: with a kind of doubt, or pity, or suspense in her affection: that I summoned the stronger determination to show her a perfectly cheerful face.

“And what is more, Trot⁠—” said my aunt.