Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner of the panelled wall, and a
girl of about my own age came quickly out and kissed him. On her face, I
saw immediately the placid and sweet expression of a lady whose portrait
I had seen downstairs. It seemed to my imagination as if the portrait
had grown womanly, and the original had remained a child. Although her
face was quite bright and happy, there was a tranquillity about it, and
about her--a quiet, good, calm, spirit--that I never have forgotten;
that I never shall forget.
This was his little housekeeper, his daughter Agnes, Mr. Wickfield said.
When I heard how he said it, and saw how he held her hand, I guessed
what the one motive of his life was.
She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her side with keys in it; and
she looked as staid and discreet a housekeeper as the old house could
have. She listened to her father as he told her about me, with a
pleasant face; and when he had concluded, proposed to my aunt that we
should go upstairs, and see my room. We all went together, she before
us. A glorious old room it was, with more oak beams, and diamond panes;
and the broad balustrade going all the way up to it.
I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I had seen a
stained-glass window in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject. But I
know that when I saw her turn round, in the grave light of the old
staircase, and wait for us above, I thought of that window; and I
associated something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfield
ever afterwards.
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