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!"

IN THE MIDST OF DEATH.

In due course of time Agnes approached Shreveport. While in the cars she had formed the acquaintance of three Sisters of Mercy, who were bound upon a similar errand of kindness and peril to her own.

At first, upon learning whither she was going, and what her object was, these pious ladies were thoroughly astonished; but when they found by interrogation that she was really in earnest, their friendly admiration became equal to their previous astonishment.

"Your services will be most welcome, Miss Arnold, I assure you," said the eldest of the Sisters. "This is the third time I have been summoned to nurse in yellow fever, and I know that there are never one-half the number of nurses necessary."

A little short of the stricken city they were all stopped, and it required the positive statement of the Sisters of Mercy that their youthful, lovely companion was really going into the place for the purpose of nursing the sick.

"Miss," asked an elderly gentleman, "were you ever acclimated here? Because if you were not, we cannot let you pass, for you would only get the fever yourself, and become a care instead of a help to us. Not only that, but you would surely be a corpse inside of twenty-four hours."

Agnes explained to the firm but kind gentleman, her New Orleans experience, and he relaxed and said:

"In that case, Miss Arnold, I sincerely welcome you, and in the name of the sick and dying people here, pray God that you may be spared to help them. Pass through, and heaven bless your brave and noble heart!"

Reader, if you are a man, possibly you have been in the army, and then possibly you have been in a column, to which has been assigned the task of storming a well-served battery of pieces. If so, you may remember the feelings that were within your heart as you left the last friendly cover of woods, and double-quicked across the open space up hill, and saw the artillery-men waiting till you got close up before pulling the primer lanyards, so as to make sure work of you all.

To Agnes Arnold going into Shreveport, the emotions must have been very much like yours in front of that battery. Yet there was no fluttering of her pulse.

"Where shall I go first?" asked this splendid heroine of the gentleman in charge of the district in which she chanced to find herself.

"Not far; right across the street there into that grocery store at the corner. We haven't been able to send any one there. Just been able to look in now and then and give them all their doses. Please give me your name, and don't leave there till I come, and I'll look after your baggage."

"My name, sir, is Agnes Arnold. I have no baggage except this one small trunk, and I would rather you let this young man bring it along directly with me."

"Very well, take it, Ned, and follow Miss Arnold, and see you don't ask anything for the job."

"Yes, sir," replied the negro porter, and shouldering the trunk he strode on hastily after Agnes. He would not go further into the house, however, than the little room immediately in the rear of the store.

"Surely you are not afraid, you who live here!" exclaimed Agnes.

"De Lor' bless your soul, missus. Youse couldn't haul dis yer niggah furder inter dis yallah house with an army muel team. Don't yer smell dat 'culiah scent. O, Lor', good-by missus. Dat's de rele Jack, suah!"

And without waiting for any further argument or remark upon the subject, the terrified fellow clapped his hand over his mouth and nose, and actually bounded out into the street to where some men were burning tar and pitch as a disinfectant. Nor did he seem to consider himself safe until he had nearly choked himself by thrusting his head into the dense black Fumes.

Agnes would have laughed at the silly man, but at this moment such violent and agonized groaning fell upon her ears, that she started and trembled. But it was only for a moment.

In an instant more she had thrown off her travelling costume and hat and bounded up stairs.

There such a sight met her gaze as would have chilled, the stoutest heart. In a narrow rear chamber were four living people and two corpses. The two dead ones were the father, a man of about forty, and a little girl of six years, his youngest child. The four living people were the mother, thirty years old, a little girl, and two boys, of the respective ages of nine, fourteen, and sixteen.

"Don't take us away to the cemetery yet! for God's sake, don't!" groaned the woman in agony. "We're not dead yet. It won't be long. But it won't be long. Leave us be a while, and then you can bury us all in one grave. For God's sake! please!"

"My dear woman, I've come to try and save your lives, not to bury you," replied Agnes in a low, kindly voice, patting the sick woman's forehead.

"They take plenty of them away and stick them in the ground while they are alive yet. Heaven help us, for we can't help ourselves."

These words were not spoken consecutively, but in fits and starts between paroxysms of dreadful physical suffering. Her racked mind and body prevented the mother from quickly comprehending Agnes. And it was not until the latter had talked to her soothingly and cheerfully for several minutes, that she began to perceive the real state of affairs.

And then the re-action from the depths of despair was like the infusion of new life and strength to the sick woman. She cried and sobbed as though her heart would break for several minutes, which excitement ended in a spasm.

Most women would have been terrified at such a scene as was at this moment presented to Miss Arnold. But she was not a mere fancy nurse. Far from it. Up went her sleeves, and for the next two hours she worked with her four patients like a Trojan, first with the mother, and next with the children. Her next care was to separate the living from the dead. The child she wrapped up in a small sheet quite neatly, and for the