The last family which Agnes nursed lived in the northern portion of
the city, and consisted of a mother and three children; the youngest a
baby twelve months old.
Ordinarily they had been in middling circumstances, but having lost
her husband by a railroad accident six months previously, the widow
was reduced to quite a straightened condition. And when the fever
seized her, she was in utter despair at the thought of being taken
away from her dear ones.
But when they brought Agnes to nurse her, and told her of the
wonderful good fortune that always attended the heroic girl, she
seemed to take fresh spirit and gain strength.
As yet the baby was unscathed by the dreadful plague, And it would
have been sent away, could they have got any person to take it. That,
however, was impossible.
"Never mind, Mrs. Green, do not let that subject worry you any more. I
will take good care of the baby. They shall not take it away from
you," said Agnes, hugging the infant to her.
"O, God bless you! God bless you, always," exclaimed the poor mother,
thrilled with the deepest gratitude. "My darling! my baby! my baby!"
True to her word, Agnes never neglected the little thing, though
sometimes, between it and her patients, she was nearly beside herself.
Reader, if you are a woman, and have ever had even an ordinary
sickness in your household, you can easily comprehend the position in
which Agnes was placed with her three patients to nurse, and an infant
to care for at the same time. Yet she never murmured, never became
impatient.
But, in the mysterious workings of Providence, it was destined that
the good, the beautiful, the angelic girl should not be long of this
world.
"De good Lord ob hebben has tuk her away to her reward!" wept an old
negress, who had been saved by the kind and tender care of Agnes, a
short time before, and who had waited on her in her dying moments, and
closed her eyes when all was over.
This poor old creature was only too happy when they gave her
permission to prepare the inanimate form of her late benefactress for
the grave. When she had done all, she did not know what to do for some
ornament, till at last a brilliant thought came across her mind, and
she adopted it.
Wherever Agnes used to go she always carried a small basket containing
little useful articles, together with a pocket Bible, out of which she
was ever reading some portion of God's holy word, appropriate to the
mental condition of the patients she might be nursing. Out of this
basket old Rachel took the pocket Bible, and, with the tears coursing
down her wrinkled features, she placed the sacred book in the clasped
hand of the quiet sleeper, and laid both gently back on the still pure
bosom.
"O, honey," she groaned, "ef ye could on'y open dem hebbenly eyes ob
yourn, an' see dat book dar, wot you used to lub so well, how you
would bress dis poor ole niggah fur puttin' it in dat pooty white hand
ob yourn."
The manner in which Agnes lost her life was as follows:
During the day the three who were ill with the fever were exceeding
troublesome, fairly overtasking the strength of Agnes in attending to
them. Shortly after noon, also, the baby began to exhibit symptoms of
being ill. It steadily grew worse, and became exceedingly fractious.
The only way in which Agnes could pacify it, was to keep walking with
it in her arms constantly. The moment she would attempt to sit down to
rest herself or lay it in its crib, so that she might do something for
the others, it would scream dreadfully till she began to walk it
again.
In this way Agnes worried along for the greater portion of the night,
never closing her eyes nor sitting down. Just before daylight, however
she became so utterly wearied out with fatigue, that she actually got
asleep several times while walking.
During one of these overpowering moments she stepped too near the top
of the stairway, lost her balance, toppled over, and fell heavily all
the way down to the bottom. There she struck the small of her back
upon the edge of a water-pail that happened to be standing on the
floor.
Had she not been encumbered with the baby she might have saved
herself. But the instant she awoke, and found that she was falling,
her first and only thought was how to keep the infant from going down
underneath herself and being surely killed. To prevent this, she
endeavored to hold it up, which effort caused her to twist or turn
round in her descent, and so fall as to inflict on herself the
dreadful and fatal injury.
She must have screamed as she went down, because two men who were
passing by, ran in immediately, and carried her into the next room.
The pain she suffered was most excruciating, yet the first words she
uttered were:
"Is the baby safe? poor little darling!"
"Yes, ma'm. I hope you aint hurted any worse than the baby," replied
one of the men, with genuine, though unpolished sympathy.
"Thank God, the baby's safe," said Agnes. "I am hurt; but after awhile
I think I will be able to get up. I would be deeply obliged to you
though, gentlemen, if you would stay till daylight--that is, if you
are not afraid of the fever. There are three sick with it up stairs."
"No, ma'm, we're not afeard of it. I'll stay with you, and, John"--the
speaker turned to his companion--"you go up to the house, and ask one
of the Sisters to come right along with you, for it'll be more nicer
for this lady to have a female with her than men. It'll make her feel
more natural and easy, won't it ma'm?"
"O, thank you a thousand times, sir," replied Agnes, most deeply
affected by the considerate gallantry of the kind-hearted, manly
fellow, who was hugging the baby up to him just like a father, and
keeping it quiet by all sorts of baby talk.
In about half an hour the other man returned with a Sister of Mercy,
who at once recognized Agnes. She was one of those with whom Agnes had
come on the cars into Shreveport.
The injured girl whispered in her ear how she was hurt, and Sister
Mary dispatched the man who had brought her hither, for additional
help, which in a short time arrived.
As soon as the doctor came and examined the injury Agnes had
sustained, he found that, independent of the fracture of the spine,
she was much hurt internally. He had no hopes of her recovery, and he
commenced, in a roundabout way to break the opinion to her; but she
saw it already in his face, and interrupted him:
"Ah, Doctor, I know all. Do not hesitate to tell me exactly how long I
have to live. I have no fear of death, I am prepared for it."
The physician thereupon informed her that she might possibly survive
forty-eight hours.
"Forty-eight hours!" she rejoined, "that is much longer than will be
needed for what I wish to do."
Then, in the most composed manner, she dictated to Sister Mary a
letter to her mother, narrating all which had occurred since her
previous letter, including an account of the accident.
This done, the heroic girl prepared to pass whatever of life remained
to her in pious conversation with Sister Mary, and advice and comfort
to poor old Rachel, the negro woman, who hung over her, constantly
weeping.
As it became apparent that dissolution was close at hand, Sister Mary
asked Miss Arnold:
"Agnes, is there any matter relating to your worldly affairs that you
have not already thought of, or that you wish attended to."
"No, Sister, I believe not. Ah, yes, there is," she quickly added; "I
would ask, that when I am gone, you will put my poor body in a grave
immediately beside that of Mr. Harkness. He was my intended husband,
and died only a short time ago with the fever. Also, will you add a
postscript to mother's letter, and say to her that it was my dying
wish, that if she lives, she will at some future time have us both
taken up and brought home, and bury us in one grave there?"
"Indeed, I will do so. Is there nothing else, Agnes?"
There was a great sadness in her voice as Sister Mary asked this, just
as though, years agone, when her own face was young and pretty, and
her own heart happy and free, she had been loved and had lost her love
in the grave.
"No, Sister, nothing more of this world. Come, Death, O come," said
Agnes, as she was seized with a paroxysm of pain.
"In God's good time, Agnes, dear," suggested the Sister.
"Yes, yes, in His good time, Agnes!" repeated the dying girl, as
though chiding herself for her impatience to be gone; "the spirit is
willing, but the flesh is weak."
"Pray, sweet Agnes, pray to Him for strength to keep you, all
unfearful, while passing through the Dark Valley."
"Give me, O, my Heavenly Father, give me strength in this mine hour of
tribulation and suffering? Not my will, but Thine be done!"
Surely "Angels ever bright and fair" bore away these half-whispered
words to Heaven like sweet incense.
For awhile Agnes seemed to be wandering, or perhaps she was dreaming;
for her eyes were closed as though in slumber, and a smile like she
used to smile, flitted over her pale face, as she stretched out her
arms to embrace some one, and exclaimed:
"Come, mother dear, a kiss! I am going to bed. Kiss me good-night
mother darling."
Sweet girl, noble young soul! You were indeed going to bed, but it was
in the dust of the valley.
Sister Mary bent down and kissed her fondly. Her hot tears falling on
the cold face roused Agnes, and she opened her eyes. Bidding all
about her, O such a farewell! such a farewell till eternity, she
crossed her hand peacefully over her breast and murmured:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."
The words had not left her lips ere she was in God's presence, a
pure, beautiful seraph of light.