Then it was that a great wail of mortal distress rose from
Shreveport--a call for help from one end of the land to another.
Business came to a stand-still, the ordinary avocations of life were
suspended. No work! no money! no bread! Nothing but sickness! nothing
but horror! nothing but despair! nothing but death! Alas! was there no
help in this supreme moment? There was plenty of money forthcoming,
but no nurses. Philanthropic men and women in near and also distant
States, sent their dollars even by telegraph. But who would go thither
and peril his or her life for the good of the city in sackcloth and
ashes?

Praised be the name of that God who gave them their brave hearts,
there were some who nobly volunteered for the deadly but loving task.
To go was almost certain death to themselves--yet did they go. And
most brave, most distinguished, most lovely among those devoted few,
was Agnes Arnold, the subject of this little memoir.

We have on our title page called her "Angel Agnes." That was what many
a burning lip named her in the unfortunate city of Shreveport, as with
her low, kind, tender voice, she spoke words of pious comfort to the
passing soul, and whispered religious consolation in the fast
deafening ears of the dying. Many had called her Angel, because their
dimming eyes had not beheld a friend's face since they took sick, till
they saw hers. Let us not fill space, though, with encomiums, but let
this noble Christian creature's deeds be recorded to speak for
themselves. So shall you, reader, do justice to the lovely martyr,
whose form, together with that of her intended husband, sleeps in the
eternal slumber far away in Louisiana.