“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.”
Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of cool
reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurance from her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.
“And when this visit is over,” said I,—“for we may not be alone another time,—how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before you come to London again?”