“Yes. It is laborious, is it not?”
“The labor is so pleasant,” she returned, “that it is scarcely grateful in me to call it by that name.”
“Nothing good is difficult to you,” said I.
Her color came and went once more; and once more, as she bent her head, I saw the same sad smile.
“You will wait and see papa,” said Agnes, cheerfully, “and pass the day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We always call it yours.”
I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my aunt’s, at night; but I would pass the day there, joyfully.
“I must be a prisoner for a little while,” said Agnes, “but here are the old books, Trotwood, and the old music.”
“Even the old flowers are here,” said I, looking round; “or the old kinds.”
“I have found a pleasure,” returned Agnes, smiling, “while you have been absent, in keeping every thing as it used to be when we were children. For we were very happy then, I think.”
“Heaven knows we were!” said I.