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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.”

He was musing, not speaking to me; so I remained quiet.

“A dull, old house,” he said, “and a monotonous life, Stay with us, Trotwood, eh?” he added in his usual manner, and as if he were answering something I had just said. “I’m glad of it. You are company to us both. It is wholesome to have you here. Wholesome for me, wholesome for Agnes wholesome perhaps for all of us.”

“I’m sure it is for me, sir,” I said, “I’m so glad to be here.”

“That’s a fine fellow!” said Mr. Wickfield. “As long as you are glad to be here, you shall stay here.”

And so I lived at Mr. Wickfield’s through the remainder of my schooldays, and to Agnes, as the months went by, I turned more and more often for advice and counsel.

We saw a good deal of Dr. Strong’s wife, both because she had taken a liking to me, and because she was very fond of Agnes, and was often backwards and forwards at our house, and we had pleasant evenings at the doctor’s too, with other guests, when we had merry round games of cards, or music–for both Mrs. Strong and Agnes sang sweetly–and so, with weekly visits from my aunt, and walks and talks with Agnes, and the events and phases of feeling too numerous to chronicle, which make up a boy’s existence, my schooldays glided all too swiftly by.

Time has stolen on unobserved. I am higher in the school and no one breaks my peace. Dr. Strong refers to me in public as a promising young scholar, and my aunt remits me a guinea by next post. And what comes now? I am the head boy! I look down on the line of boys below me, with a condescending interest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself, when I first came there. That little fellow seems to be no part of me; I remember him as something left behind upon the road of life–and almost think of him as of some one else.