‘A poor angel,’ she returned, ‘but faithful.’
The clear tone of her voice, going straight to my heart, made it natural to me to say:
‘The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no one else that ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed today, that I have begun to hope you are happier at home?’
‘I am happier in myself,’ she said; ‘I am quite cheerful and light-hearted.’
I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought it was the stars that made it seem so noble.
‘There has been no change at home,’ said Agnes, after a few moments.
‘No fresh reference,’ said I, ‘to—I wouldn’t distress you, Agnes, but I cannot help asking—to what we spoke of, when we parted last?’
‘No, none,’ she answered.
‘I have thought so much about it.’
‘You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,’ she added, after a moment; ‘the step you dread my taking, I shall never take.’