In this way the tenor of her pure and innocent life went on, until she reached her sixteenth year.  Never did a happier young creature enjoy existence—­never lived a being more worthy of happiness.  Her inseparable and bosom friend was Alice Goodwin, now her sister according to their artless compact of love.  They spent weeks and months alternately with each other; but her father never permitted a day to pass without seeing her, and every visit filled his happy spirit with more hopeful anticipations.

At this period it occurred to him to have their portraits drawn, and on hearing him mention this intention, their young hearts were ecstatic with delight.

“But, papa,” said Agnes, “if you do I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Granted, Agnes, if it be possible.”

“O, quite possible, papa; it is to get both our portraits painted in the same frame, for, do you know, I don’t think I could feel happy if Alice’s portrait was separated from mine.”

“It shall be done, darling—­it shall be done.”

And it was done, accordingly; for what father could refuse a request founded upon an affection so tender and beautiful as theirs?

Agnes has now entered her seventeenth year—­but how is this?  Why does her cheek begin to get alternately pale and red?  And why does the horizon of the father’s heart begin to darken?  Alas! it is so—­the spoiler is upon her at last.  Appetite is gone—­her spirits are gone, unless in these occasional ebullitions of vivacity which resemble the lightnings which flash from the cloud that is gathering over her.  It would be painful to dwell minutely upon the history of her illness—­upon her angelic patience and submission to the will of God, and upon the affection, now consecrated by approaching death into something sacred, which she exhibited to her father and Alice.  The latter was never from her during the progress of that mournful decline.  The poor dying girl found all the tenderest offices of love and friendship anticipated.  Except heaven she had scarcely anything to wish for.  But who can even imagine the hopeless agony of her father’s soul?  She had been the single remaining plank which bore him through a troubled ocean to a calm and delightful harbor; but now she is going down, leaving him to struggle, weak and exhausted for a little, and then the same dark waves will cover them both.

At length the dreadful hour arrived—­the last slight spasm of death was over, and her spotless soul passed into heaven from the bereaved arms of her hopeless and distracted father, who was reduced by the depth and wildness of despair to a state of agony which might wring compassion from a demon.