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.”