Every means were resorted to, to restore Mr. Lincoln—but all in vain. The physicians, after an examination, decided that he had labored under an affection of the heart, unconsciously, for some time; that he had been on the brink of the grave for many months, undoubtedly—he, who had seemed so healthy; and this it was which had caused his death, which they thought had taken place some time before Agnes’ return, and with little or no suffering, possibly without a consciousness of the approaching fearful change. Poor Agnes! her sufferings were intense, but her naturally strong mind, and strict sense of duty, aided her, when in the morning, after the heavy stupor of exhaustion had passed away, the fearful consciousness of her great sorrow arose vividly before her. She recollected there were others to suffer, who were weaker to bear—her poor invalid mother, and fatherless brothers and sisters. She wept long and bitterly, when her eyes opened upon my tearful, anxious face, as I bent over her. I blessed those tears, for I knew they would relieve her. She at last, however, bowed meekly to the burden imposed upon her, and hastened to soothe and comfort her almost heart-broken mother, and the poor startled, weeping children. Everybody grieved for Mr. Lincoln, for he was much beloved; “but,” said the out-of-doors world, “how fortunate are his family, possessing wealth in the midst of their sorrow. Mr. Lincoln has left them an immense fortune to comfort them in their affliction;” as if money could compensate for the loss of loved ones. Agnes would have gladly toiled for their daily bread to have purchased one look from those eyes closed in death, one accent of love from those cold, livid lips. After the funeral, Mr. Lincoln’s will was opened. It was one made three or four years previous to his death; and my father was one of the executors, and sole guardian to the children. This will had been made previous to Agnes’ engagement; but in it Mr. Lincoln expressed a wish, almost a command, that if ever Agnes married, my father should insist upon having the greater part of her immense fortune settled upon her. A week or two passed by, when one evening my father returned home from his office, later than usual, and his face wore an anxious, troubled expression. Some case of more than ordinary misery and sadness, I thought, has come before him, in which fate has woven a darker weft of trouble. I hastened to procure for him the soothing cup of tea, which he so much loved, and sat beside his chair, as he silently despatched his light meal, expecting every moment to hear the new tale of human suffering—but I was disappointed; my father drank his tea quietly, and it was not until the tea-service was removed, and I seated at my sewing-table beside his large arm-chair, that the good, kind old man broke the silence. “Enna, my child,” he said, in gloomy tones, “poor Agnes Lincoln, her mother and those fatherless children are penniless.”