e will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get
well, my dear.'

'Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know!'

It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the
same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile
upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs
now. She lies here all the day.

'Doady!'

'My dear Dora!'

'You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you
told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? I
want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.'

'I will write to her, my dear.'

'Will you?'

'Directly.'

'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear,
it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to
see her!'

'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to
come.'

'You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?' Dora whispers, with
her arm about my neck.

'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?'

'My empty chair!' She clings to me for a little while, in silence. 'And
you really miss me, Doady?' looking up, and brightly smiling. 'Even
poor, giddy, stupid me?'

'My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?'

'Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!' creeping closer to me, and
folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and
quite happy.

'Quite!' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I
want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.'

'Except to get well again, Dora.'

'Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly little
thing!--that that will never be!'

'Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so!'

'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear
boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty chair!'

It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among
us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with
Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora
has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.

Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me
so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far from
sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have
withdrawn by mysel