“No, no, dear Miss Enna,” exclaimed the lovely girl, as she gathered her graceful limbs on her favorite seat beside me, in order to make her dear little luxurious form still more comfortable, gazing into my face with her bright dancing eyes, and holding my hands caressingly, “Heaven knows, I have had need to bless the sisterhood, for what would I have been without such a dear, good, kind—” I stopped her rosy flattering lips with my hand, and yielded to her request. Kate Wilson promised to be lenient should my story have less of interest and romance in it than she expected—will you, my dear reader, be as merciful and indulgent? As Kate said, I had known Agnes Lincoln from girlhood—yes, babyhood—for we had been introduced by our proud, happy mothers to each other, in our first long dresses, and had taken infinite delight, so our nurses had said, in tearing the blue and pink cockades off of each other’s caps. We were always warm friends; went to the same schools, and, as our parents were intimate, when we grew up visited in the same circles. Agnes’ father was the senior member of one of the most opulent firms in the city—his wealth was said to be immense, and truly they lived in a style of princely magnificence. She was the eldest of several children. The three next to her died in infancy, which made quite a difference between her and the other children in point of age. Her mother was a woman of exceedingly delicate frame, and sickness and the distress she had suffered on losing her children, weakened still more a mind never very strong. I always remember her as an invalid—surrounded by every luxury wealth could purchase; possessing a doting husband and a family of noble children; yet always repining and melancholy. Agnes had been educated by her father with exceeding great care; and as she grew up was a most agreeable companion for him. He accompanied her into society; they studied, rode, drove and walked together; indeed one could rarely see them apart. How proud was he of her; and he lavished every costly gift upon her with an unsparing hand. She was beautiful—a tall, splendid looking creature—a fine erect figure, with the bearing of a queen, and a head fitted for a Zenobia—but the classic severity of her features was softened by the most melting, lovely eyes, and the gentle melodious tones of her voice were bewitching. Beautiful, rich and young, of course Agnes Lincoln was a belle. She had been full two years in society, and to the surprise of her friends she was still disengaged. “I shall never marry, Enna,” she would say to me, in answer to my playful reproaches upon her want of susceptibility—“how could my poor mother or lonely father spare me?” and at last I began to think, as many others did, that Agnes was one of those born to a life of “single blessedness,” when “Lo! the troubled joy of life, Love’s lightening happiness,”