“No doubt,” said I. “No doubt. But has she any lover who is worthy of her? Agnes could care for no other.”
My aunt sat musing for a little while, with her chin upon her hand. Slowly raising her eyes to mine, she said:
“I suspect she has an attachment, Trot.”
“A prosperous one?” said I.
“Trot,” returned my aunt gravely, “I can’t say. I have no right to tell you even so much. She has never confided it to me, but I suspect it.”
She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw her tremble), that I felt now, more than ever, that she had followed my late thoughts. I summoned all the resolutions I had made, in all those many days and nights, and all those many conflicts of my heart.
“If it should be so,” I began, “and I hope it is—”
“I don’t know that it is,” said my aunt curtly. “You must not be ruled by my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They are very slight, perhaps. I have no right to speak.”
“If it should be so,” I repeated, “Agnes will tell me at her own good time. A sister to whom I have confided so much, aunt, will not be reluctant to confide in me.”
My aunt withdrew her eyes from mine, as slowly as she had turned them upon me; and covered them thoughtfully with her hand. By and by she put her other hand on my shoulder; and so we both sat, looking into the past, without saying another word, until we parted for the night.