“You have never been to school,” I said, “have you?”

“Oh yes! every day.”

“Ah, but you mean here, at your own home?”

“Papa couldn’t spare me to go anywhere else,” she answered smiling and shaking her head, “His housekeeper must be in his house, you know.”

“He’s very fond of you, I am sure,” I said.

She nodded, “Yes,” and went to the door to listen for his coming up, that she might meet him on the stairs.  But as he was not there, she came back again.

“Mamma has been dead ever since I was born,” she said in her quiet way.  “I only know her picture, downstairs.  I saw you looking at it yesterday.  Did you think whose it was?”

I told her yes, because it was so like herself.

“Papa says so, too,” said Agnes, pleased.  “Hark! that’s Papa now!”

Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went to meet him, and as they came in, hand in hand; and from that time as I watched her day by day, I saw no trace in Agnes of anything but single-hearted devotion to that father, whose wants she cared for so untiringly in her beautiful quiet way.

When we had dined that night, we went upstairs again, where everything went on exactly as on the previous day.  Agnes set the glasses and decanters in the same corner, and Mr. Wickfield sat down to drink.  Agnes played the piano to him, sat by him, and worked and talked, and played some games at dominoes with me.  In good time she made tea; and afterwards, when I brought down my books, looked into them, and showed me what she knew of them (which was no slight matter, though she said it was), and what was the best way to learn and understand them.  I see her, with her modest, orderly, placid, manner, and I hear her beautiful, calm voice, as I write these words.  The influence for all good, which she came to exercise over me at a later time begins already to descend upon my breast.  I love little Emily, and I don’t love Agnes—­no, not at all in that way—­but I feel that there are goodness, peace, and truth wherever Agnes is; and that the soft light of the colored window in the church, seen long ago, falls on her always, and on me when I am near her, and on everything around.

The time having come for her withdrawal for the night, as I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going away myself, he checked me and said; “Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood, or go elsewhere?”

“To stay,” I answered quickly.

“You are sure?”

“If you please.  If I may.”

“Why, it’s but a dull life that we lead here, boy, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Not more dull for me than Agnes, sir.  Not dull at all!”

“Than Agnes,” he repeated, walking slowly to the great chimney-piece, and leaning against it.  “Than Agnes!  Now I wonder,” he muttered, “whether my Agnes tires of me.  When should I ever tire of her?  But that’s different, that’s quite different.”