On the succeeding Monday, while nursing a poor woman in the northern
part of the city, a note was brought to her by the dead-wagon man--the
same genius with whom Agnes had had the encounter.
"Missus Agonyess," said he, trying to pronounce her name correctly, as
he remembered the correction--an effort which betrayed him into a
double error--"I wuz asked to fetch this here letter to you. It wuz
giv to me by a black feller who's a nussin' in the little hospital. A
young man guv it to him last night, and promised to give him his gold
watch ef he'd find you out and git it to yer."
"Hospital--young man--gold watch!" ejaculated Agnes in a disjointed
way, as she took the letter.
A glance at the handwriting was sufficient, and her face grew deadly
white as she opened and read:
"Agnes--Angel Agnes, I hear they call you--and they may well call you
that--darling, I found out the trick by which we were estranged. I was
foolish, I was wrong to treat you so. And when I learned you had come
here into this pest-hole, I was crazy with anxiety for fear you would
take the fever and die. I did not know how I _did_ love you till
then. God forgive me, guilty wretch that I am, for driving you to such
a desperate piece of romance. I came here to tell you how sorry I was,
and to ask you to take me bask to my old place in your heart. But now
I am afraid it is too late.
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