later time, begins already to descend upon my breast. I love little Em’ly, 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 coloured 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, and she having left us, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going away myself. But he checked me and said: ‘Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood, or to go elsewhere?’

‘To stay,’ I answered, quickly.

‘You are sure?’

‘If you please. If I may!’