"Then it must be Minnie, for there's no one else. And as to Minnie, you know I love her exactly as if she were my own child."
Mrs. Headley laughed a little, though bright tears filled her eyes and fell down into her lap.
"Don't you think I do?" asked Agnes soberly—not half liking the little laugh, or the tears either for that matter.
"You love her as much as you possibly can, dearest, but that does not give you my experience. No, Agnes, it is not Minnie or any one in particular, but it is the five of you all together that I'm afraid to leave. I am so afraid they might get tired of doing as you said."
"They never have yet, mother. You ask them, and see."
Mrs. Headley looked thoughtfully into the fire, and was silent for a long time. So was Agnes, till at last she roused up suddenly and put her hand into her mother's.
"There's one Friend I shall always have near, nearer than next door; always at hand to help and counsel—eh, mother dear? We had not forgotten Him, only we did not say anything actually about Him."
"Yes, my child, I do not forget; and if I were more trustful I should not be so afraid."
Mrs. Headley rose and left the room just as the door opened, and John came in.
"Holloa, Agnes, all alone in the dark," he exclaimed, stumbling over the stools and chairs. "Why don't you have a light?"