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jarred within me; I could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrink from nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, was her dear self, the better angel of my life? 'And you, Agnes,' I said, by and by. 'Tell me of yourself. You have hardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time!' 'What should I tell?' she answered, with her radiant smile. 'Papa is well. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest, our home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, you know all.' 'All, Agnes?' said I. She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face. 'Is there nothing else, Sister?' I said. Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again. She smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head. I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply painful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to discipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she was uneasy, and I let it pass. 'You have much to do, dear Agnes?' 'With my school?' said she, looking up again, in all her bright composure. 'Yes. It is laborious, is it not?' 'The labour 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 colour 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 |