Angel Agnes | Page 3

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