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.
angel agnes, farewell!
Sister Mary, during the very short intercourse she had had with Agnes Arnold, had fallen in love with the sweet, good girl, and when she died she wept over her as an elder sister might have done.
She was particular to see that the last wishes of Agnes, in regard to her being buried in a separate grave beside young Harkness, were carried out to the letter. No mourner save herself was at the funeral, for there were more sick people than well ones to attend to them. And even Sister Mary could not linger by the grave of her dear young friend as she would have liked to do. She was obliged, after seeing the coffin lowered into the sepulchre, to hasten back to her patients.
Never was there a more touching, more loving, more solemn epistle written from a daughter to a mother than that which Agnes Arnold, while dying, dictated to Sister Mary to be forwarded to her mother after her death. Sister Mary, in concluding her own letter, in which that of Agnes was enclosed, writes:
"I assure you again, Mrs. Arnold not merely myself, but no one else here who has come in contact with your noble and self-sacrificing daughter, will ever forget her, but will ever hold her memory most dear. No words would suffice to accurately describe the love and almost veneration with which we esteemed your sweet, departed daughter. She was so heroic, yet so quiet and modest; she was so prompt and decisive, yet so winning and amiable; she was so devoted to religion, yet never melancholy or austere. Ah, no! she was like God's own bright blue sky and genial sunbeam. Her very presence in the chamber of the sick appeared to have an instant and magnetic effect for the better. She was God's own dear child and handmaiden, and He has taken her home to himself. I only hope that when I come to die, my death may be so completely beatific as your daughter's was.
"Just before she passed into immortality she asked me to let her kiss me. 'Now,' said she, 'if you ever see my dear mother, give her that kiss, and tell her she was the last one I thought of when I was dying.' And believe me, Mrs. Arnold, I shall endeavor to fulfil your daughter's tender request should it be the good will of God for me to escape from the pestilence which is raging around us. Mr. Harkness's gold watch I have placed with the Express Company, which will carry it to you for your disposal.
"Most affectionately, madam, I am ever yours,
Mary."
Agnes' letter, which, as we have said, was enclosed in the above, was worded as follows:
Shreveport, La., Oct. 2d, 1873.
My Darling, Ever Beloved Mother:
You will notice that this letter is written by another hand than mine. The reason you will find further on. You will remember when I left you to come here I told you that I had resigned myself to the will of Him in whose merciful service I enlisted.
I have devoted myself to the work with my whole soul, my heart being thoroughly in the good cause. And I believe that I have been the humble means of saving several lives.
I have not got the fever, but night before last, while nursing a child, I carelessly fell asleep—being very much wearied—and fell down stairs. Thank heaven, I saved the little one's life. I struck the small of my back causing a fracture and some internal injury. The doctor has done all he could for me, but it will not avail, and I must go away from you, at least on this earth.
But sweet, good, kind mother, I will meet you again above, in that better land where there is no sin, no pain, no anguish, but where all is light and love and immortality. My dear friend and nurse, Sister Mary, who writes this for me, will see that I am buried beside George, and mother, this is the great wish of my heart—that if possible, at some time you will bring our bodies both home and bury us in one grave. I forgive Sophia the wrong she did me and George freely from my soul. Sister Mary has a kiss I gave her for you.
Pray do not grieve for me that I am thus passing away; but, in the future, always be comforted with the knowledge that I shall be waiting with papa and the others, at heaven's gate, to greet you home when you follow us from earth.
I would have so much liked to see you, mother dear, before I died; but it has been ordained otherwise, and God does all things well.
Give my love to all my acquaintances and tell them I thought of all when dying; and my Bible class scholars, I do not know what to ask you to say to them. Try and tell them how deeply I love them, and how I wish to meet them all around the great white throne on high.
And now, mother, you who are dearer to me than all other earthly treasures, to you I must say—good-by, till we meet again in heaven.
Ever your own loving
Agnes.
"Dear little darling!" said Anges, tenderly, pressing the infant against her bosom.