“She told me that she left me something. Can you think what it was?”
I believed I could. I drew the wife who had so long loved me, closer to my side.
“She told me that she made a last request to me, and left me a last charge.”
“And it was——”
“That only I would occupy this vacant place.”
And Agnes laid her head upon my breast, and wept; and I wept with her, though we were so happy.
CHAPTER LXIII.
A VISITOR.
What I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but there is yet an incident conspicuous in my memory, on which it often rests with delight, and without which one thread in the web I have spun, would have a ravelled end.
I had advanced in fame and fortune, my domestic joy was perfect, I had been married ten happy years. Agnes and I were sitting by the fire, in our house in London, one night in spring, and three of our children were playing in the room, when I was told that a stranger wished to see me.
