They did nothing but fondle and kiss the child they had adopted.
Thenceforward, instead of Mary Morton, the child was Agnes Arnold.
Years went by, and on the day we first introduced her she was
twenty-two years old. Her own mother and Mr. Arnold had passed away
and were laid away to sleep in the dust close by the little Agnes of
old. But like the ivy and the flowers which grew over all their
graves, each advancing year made stouter and stronger the invisible
ivy that bound Agnes' heart and Mrs. Arnold's heart together, and the
same advancing year rendered sweeter and sweeter the fragrance of
those unseen yet ever-present buds and blossoms, that created a
perpetual summer in their minds and affections.
"Mother," said Agnes as she entered the library and drew up a chair
close to Mrs. Arnold's, "I wish to ask your advice about the affair
between George and me. Do you think I ought to take any more notice of
him or Sophia?"
"Well, I scarcely can speak to you advisedly, Agnes, on such a
matter," said Mrs. Arnold. "You are aware that my first and last
thoughts are for your happiness. But, from what I know of the
circumstances, I do not see that you can make any move either one way
or another without sacrificing your feelings unjustly."
"I have kept back nothing from you, mother," replied Agnes; "you know
all, just as well as I do myself.
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