Clarksville chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1857-1865, 1860-11-30

left herwlth my mother. When | return
ed. year after year, found her each time
growing healthier and prettier, and she
each time manifested for me an affection
charmingly legitimate-for was she not
"my baby?" As such / cherished her.
She was six years old when left West
Point for active service. After that led
a wandering and adventurous life for years
"by food and field" "My bsby" wrote
me at first often
Her first letters were curious specimens
half written, half printed-and some
times her meaning eked out with rude
drawings. In those days she was charm
ingly personal. "I do so and SOL think
so and SOL love so and So" But years
changed her calligraphy, and alasl the feel
ing Of her letters. Now, in her charming
girlish character, stood, "your mother does
so and so" or, "your sister thinks and
loves" etc. My mother wrote, "you can't
call Perdida your baby any longer she
does not permit the title, and you, we're
you to see her, could scarce imagine that
our fair young queen was ever baby.
am too old to be enthusiastic, but our dar-
ling is surely the lovelest vision these eyes
have ever rested on. She makes hearts
ache, but as yet their pain is vain. We tri-
ed to be so cautious; but she has somehow
learned about her finding, and it is bitter
knowledge to the proud little heart 1t
may be you that makes her melt only to us
Will you never come home to see us and
hcr?"
1t was In the spring of the year 1856
/ was on my way home to America. An
elderly gentleman, who had evidently been
soldier, occupied state room next to
mine. A similarity of taste and feeling
brought us much together during the voy-
age. He had been absent from his coun-
try many years.
"When l left, said he to me, III meant
never to revisit the shores that had been
accursed to me. l lost there my wife and
children under the cruelest circumstances;
and | could not remain. l thought then
l could never see the spot again that had
been SO fatal to me. And yet return
now, impelled by some feeling which I can
not account for or resist. l dream that l
am going to see my child; sometimes, even
in my waking moulents, am fully con-
vinced that shall find her"
"How," interrupted, in spite of my
SELF "is not your child dead?"
"Alasl l do not know"
"You do not know! Did she not die be-
fore you left America?"
"No. Three months ago I would have
said wished she had, rather than live lost
to me, exposed to fates | shudder to think
of. Now l am more hopeful-more trust
full. It seems to me she has been kept
pure. and that shall know her. "And
yet" and he sighed heavily, "I have not
the shadow Of q reason for such hope and
trust"
i / was excited; compared tho remem
brance of the miniature on ''my baby's"
sleeve chain with the figure before me.
made him explain all. He told me of the
child's birth, tho delicate health of his
wife afterward, his taking her to Cuba
leaving the child in, as he supposed, trusty
care-thc death of his wife in Havana
and while he was still in the first anguish
of her loss, news from his child's nurse of
its death, and of her speedy return to Ire
land. He came to New York too late to
find her, and left America at once-as he
supposed, forever.
In Europe, years after, he met a servant
who had been with him during his brief
married life, and who declared to him pos
itively that his child was not dead at the
date on which the woman had written him;
but further than that he could not say, as
he bad followed the fortunes of another
master. The unhappy father sought vain.
ly for the woman, and now returned as a
last means to America. He described the
child's nurse. 1t was the woman who had
abandoned her child in my arms; and his
face was the changed one of Perdida's
miniature.
Not many days thereafter I restored ia
my friend his SO early lost child, and ]
gave up my baby" to her rightful father
Without pang. Yes Did l console
myself with the pretty cousin aforemen.
toned? She hadn't had patience to wait
that might-a husband and several
olive branches precluded that How
then? l saw "my baby" stately and ra
! dainty beautiful woman. She called me
} Major --, she treated me in the mos
precise and formal way the utmost favol
she bestowed on me was the slightest pos
sible touch of the fingers as she bade mi
good night or good morning, and l saw
her hourly in her idolized fathers arms
: lavishing the tenderest caresses upon him
: Would | have it otherwise2 No. Ther,
= was dearer delight in the reserve will
which | was treated-the faintest 1usl
g that covered her cheek when I was nca
Y her, or addressed her, had for me an mex
! pressible sweetness that | wouldn't have
S bartered for aught on earth short of wha
e | eventually obtained. What you don
e mean to say that you, a SCARED old yete
d ran of between thirty and forty, dared
r Didn't II Hum And this was the wa
q oft. In my military capacity | was in
y vited to West Point. went, and m
;. friend and his daughter accompanied me
= | sat beside her in the cars. The happ,
I old gentleman, at little distance, rea
: diligently. said:
ftn 4 4 II II A