surrounded by all of earthly happiness, was torn from her embrace.  In the agony of delirium, Agnes had beheld her, gliding, unconsciously, down the dark valley and the shadow of death, and she trembled, when she felt how totally unprepared she was to meet the King of Terrors, and yet how soon she might be called to do so.  In the midst of the gay dance, at the festive board, where mirth ruled the hour, and honeyed flatteries were poured into her ear, she was still haunted by that pallid, agonized countenance, and by the voice, whose heart-rending accents she still seemed to hear, as distinctly as when it cried, in imploring tones, “Save me, oh save me, from the deep, dark waters.  They surround me on every side; have pity on me, for I sink, I sink, I sink.”

So deep an effect had the loss of her young companion, and the remembrance of her last hours, produced on Agnes, that she fell into a dejection, from which nothing could rouse her, and her physical powers soon gave unmistakable evidences of their sympathy with the mind, by alarming prostration of strength.  The physician, on being applied to, recommended the usual restorative, change of air and scene; and a pleasant summer’s retreat was selected as Agnes’s residence, for a few weeks.  Mrs. Denham would fain have accompanied her niece, but a violent attack of the gout, to which Mr. Denham was subject, rendered it impossible for her to leave him, and with many tender charges and injunctions, Agnes was consigned to the care of a friend, travelling in that direction.

Great was the change to Agnes, yet not the less beneficial on that account.  The absence of the glitter and show of fashionable life, the quiet that reigned around, the beauty of the scenery, the kindness and simplicity of the scattered inhabitants,—­all delighted her; and the group of admirers, who were wont to surround her, would scarcely have recognized, in the warm-hearted, enthusiastic girl, who, in simple attire, might daily be seen rambling through the fields, or, with a book in hand, seated beneath a favorite oak, the accomplished and fashionable Miss Wiltshire.

The lady with whom she resided was a clergyman’s widow, who, deprived by an untimely death of her natural protector and provider, sought to augment her scanty means, by opening her house during the summer months to casual visitors.  She had been beautiful once, and she was young still; but the glow and the freshness of life’s youth had vanished, not so much before time as sorrow, for peculiarly distressing circumstances had attended the loss of her dearest friend, and now, disease had almost, unsuspected, commenced its insidious ravages on a naturally delicate constitution.