I said.

Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again. She
smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head.

I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply
painful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to
discipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she was
uneasy, and I let it pass.

'You have much to do, dear Agnes?'

'With my school?' said she, looking up again, in all her bright
composure.

'Yes. It is laborious, is it not?'

'The labour is so pleasant,' she returned, 'that it is scarcely grateful
in me to call it by that name.'

'Nothing good is difficult to you,' said I.

Her colour came and went once more; and once more, as she bent her head,
I saw the same sad smile.

'You will wait and see papa,' said Agnes, cheerfully, 'and pass the
day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We always call it
yours.'

I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my aunt's at night;
but I would pass the day there, joyfully.

'I must be a prisoner for a little while,' said Agnes, 'but here are the
old books, Trotwood, and the old music.'

'Even the old flowers are here,' said I, looking round; 'or the old
kinds.'

'I have found a pleasure,' returned Agnes, smiling, 'while you have been
absent, in keeping everything as it used to be when we were children.
For we were very happy then, I think.'

'Heaven knows we were!' said I.

'And every little thing that has reminded me of my brother,' said Agnes,
with her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon me, 'has been a welcome
companion. Even this,' showing me the basket-trifle, full of keys, still
hanging at her side, 'seems to jingle a kind of old tune!'

She smiled again, and went out at the door by which she had come.

It was for me to guard this sisterly affection with religious care. It
was all that I had left myself, and it was a treasure. If I once shook
the foundations of the sacred confidence and usage, in virtue of which
it was given to me, it was lost, and could never be recovered. I set
this steadily before myself. The better I loved her, the more it behoved
me never to forget it.

I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my old adversary the
butcher--now a constable, with his staff hanging up in the shop--went
down to look at the place where I had fought him; and there meditated
on Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss Larkins, and all the