One day Mrs. Arnold, widow of the late well-known Samuel Arnold of
this city, sat in the library of their elegant mansion up town,
leading the daily papers.
It was shortly after breakfast, and presently Agnes, her adopted
daughter, entered the room. The Arnolds had never had any children,
save one, a girl, and she had died when she was three years old. While
going to the funeral, Mrs. Arnold saw a poorly clad lady walking
slowly along with a little girl so strikingly like her own dead child,
that she was perfectly astonished,--so much so, indeed, that she
called her husband's attention to the little one. Mr. Arnold himself
was so surprised that he had the carriage stop, and, getting out, went
and inquired the lady's name and address.
"For, madame," said he, as a reason for his doing such an apparently
strange act, "your little daughter here is a perfect likeness of our
own little Agnes, whose coffin you see in yonder hearse. You must
allow Mrs. Arnold and me to call upon you, though we are perfect
strangers to you; indeed you must."
"Very well, sir," answered the strange lady, "I shall not, certainly
under the circumstances, object."
Immediately after the funeral the Arnolds called at the residence of
Mrs. Morton, whose husband had died more than a year before. She was
obliged to take in plain sewing, and when she could do so, she gave
occasional lessons in French to eke out a livelihood for herself and
child. A very short interview resulted in Mrs. Arnold persuading the
widow to take a permanent situation with her, as her seamstress. And
from that date until her death, which took place five years later, the
fortunate widow and her child lived with the Arnolds as full members
of the family.
With an exquisite and grateful regard for the sensibilities and
possible wishes of her benefactors, the mother of the child
voluntarily changed its name from Mary to Agnes.
"I know you will approve of my doing so," said she, on the occasion of
her daughter's birthday--the Arnolds made quite a time of it, decking
the new Agnes in all the trinkets which had once belonged to the
little Agnes, who was gone--"I know you will approve of my doing so,
and I cannot think of any better way in which to express my gratitude
to you both."
Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were moved to tears by these words; in fact, so
deep and genuine was their emotion that neither one spoke for some
time. 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."
"Then I think you did perfectly right, Agnes, darling. Your course has
my emphatic approval. I can appreciate perfectly that it must cause
you to feel wretchedly for some time; but the self-satisfaction it
must eventually bring you, will gradually but surely overcome the
first disappointment and regret, just as the ever-shining sun pierces
and dissipates the heaviest storm cloud."
"Well, mother, I will await the turn of events, and whichever way,
whether for weal or for woe, I shall abide it. But should I lose
George through this, I shall never risk a second such mental agony
with any one else."
"Ah," smiled Mrs. Arnold, kissing Agnes, gayly, "young hearts like
yours are not so brittle as to be easily shattered. Better fish in the
sea, et cetera. You know the old adage--but there's the postman, dear;
you run and get the letters he has."
Agnes did as her mother requested her, and in a few moments more
re-entered the room with four letters in one hand, and one letter in
the other. The single missive was directed to herself, in a
chirography which she well knew. Giving the four to her mother, she
sat down and opened her own. It was couched in cold, formal words,
instead of gushing sentences as usual, and to say that it chilled and
crushed her is to say only the truth. When her mother had finished
her's, Agnes handed this letter to her with the quietly spoken remark:
"That severs George and me forever in this world, mother. With a keen
sword he has cut me off from him, like the gardener ruthlessly cuts
the vine from the oak."
As she spoke, Agnes drew from her bosom a gold locket, and, springing
it open, she gazed for a moment upon a handsome manly face which it
contained. That was George's likeness.
"Till eternity George, till eternity--"
She did not finish the sentence in words; but the fond, artless,
fervent kiss she imprinted upon the picture was such a one as is given
to the dead lips of one we love, and are about to part with forever.
She snapped the lid shut again, replaced the closed trinket in her
bosom, and said:
"Mother, all is over. I shall never open it again. But in case I die
before you, I wish you to have this buried with me."
Mrs. Arnold tried to rally Agnes about this, her first disappointment
of the heart, and had the satisfaction of presently seeing her quite
merry. Suddenly Agnes, as she glanced over the newspaper, exclaimed:
"Mother, what a dreadful thing that yellow fever is! Did you read
this? Whole families are being swept out of existence, and have no one
to help or nurse them. It's frightful, and yet we boast of our
Christianity. It's a sin and a shame!"
She continued to read the fearful despatches that had first attracted
her attention, while her mother remained silent.
"Mother," she resumed, when she had finished, "I am going down to
Shreveport."
"What do you mean, Agnes?" exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, glancing anxiously
at her daughter.
"I am going down to Shreveport, to help to nurse those poor perishing
people."
"Agnes!"
"Yes, dear mother. I believe it to be my duty to go and do what little
I can toward alleviating the distress of those stricken sufferers."
"Why, Agnes, dear, you would surely perish yourself."
"O no, mother, you forget how I waited on papa and you when you both
had the fever down in New Orleans."
This was true. Several years before, while the Arnolds had been making
a pleasure tour in the Southern States, they had been seized with the
disorder, and but for the unflagging, heroic devotion of Agnes, they
would most likely have perished.
"No, darling, I could never forget that were I to live a hundred
years. It is because I do remember the horror of that time that I
would not wish you to expose yourself to such another. Besides, what
would I do without you?"
"That is the only subject that gives me any pain, mother; but then God
would take care of you as well as of me, would he not?"
"Yes."
"I know it, mother. You have always taught me that, and I firmly
believe it. God, who sees and notes the fall of even a sparrow, will
not let me fall, except it be His gracious will. No, mother, I feel
that I must go, and you must consent and give me your best blessing.
It is strange that we see no account of ministers or members of any
denomination but the Roman Church volunteering to go to the stricken
city. All seem to stand aloof but them. How noble are those truly
Christian and devoted women, the Sisters of Mercy! And shall I be idle
and listless when I might be saving life, or at least trying to do so.
O, mother dear, I must go. I will come back safely to you. You must
give me your consent."
Mrs. Arnold was herself a truly brave and Christian lady, and a firm
believer in the care that God exercises over all who serve Him. And
therefore, after a short consideration, she gave the required consent
to her daughter Agnes, to go to Shreveport as a nurse.
During the late war, fond fathers sent their sons to the battle-field,
not that they wished to have them slaughtered, but willing that, for
the sake of their cause, they should take the risk.
So now, with much the same motive, Mrs. Arnold gave Agnes her
approbation to go and perform her Christian duty to the sufferers at
Shreveport.
Yet when the parting really came, it seemed as though Mrs. Arnold
could never unclasp her arms from about the form of her daughter.
"God will bring me safely back to you, dear mother," urged Agnes,
gently untwining those loving arms; "Good-by."
"Good-by, darling, good-by."
It was over--the parting was over--Agnes was gone. Mrs. Arnold was
alone--for evermore in this life. Not until the sea and earth give up
their dead--not until the Book of Life might be opened and mankind
summoned before the White Throne on high, were these two destined to
look into each other's face again. Mrs. Arnold could not foresee the
solemn significance of her words as, for the last time, she murmured:
"Agnes, my darling, my angel, good-by!"