She put her hand—its touch was like no other hand—upon my arm for a moment; and I felt so befriended and comforted, that I could not help moving it to my lips, and gratefully kissing it.
“Sit down,” said Agnes, cheerfully. “Don’t be unhappy, Trotwood. If you cannot confidently trust me, whom will you trust?”
“Ah, Agnes!” I returned. “You are my good Angel!”
She smiled rather sadly, I thought, and shook her head.
“Yes, Agnes, my good Angel! Always my good Angel!”
“If I were, indeed, Trotwood,” she returned, “there is one thing that I should set my heart on very much.”
I looked at her inquiringly; but already with a foreknowledge of her meaning.
“On warning you,” said Agnes, with a steady glance, “against your bad Angel.”
“My dear Agnes,” I began, “if you mean Steerforth—”
“I do, Trotwood,” she returned.