“Yes, Nellie, it is your father! God be thanked for permitting me to come to you again. And you are Nellie! But how grown!”
Captain Dawson leaned over the side of his horse and, passing his strong arm around the waist of his daughter, lifted her up in front of him. Then he pressed his lips to hers, and half-laughing and half-crying asked:
“Who’s the happier, you or I?”
“You can’t be any happier than I; but, father,” she added in amazement, “where is your other arm?”
“Buried in Southern Virginia as a memento of my work for the Union, but, my dear child, I am here; isn’t that enough?”
“Yes, bless your heart!” she exclaimed, nestling up to him; “it all seems like a dream, but it isn’t, for I can feel you. I am so sorry,” she added, noticing the sleeve pinned to his breast; “how you must have suffered.”
“Nonsense! it isn’t anything to lose an arm; it’s not half so bad as having your head blown off or both legs carried away. After going nearly through the war without a scratch, I caught it just before Appomattox, but thousands were less fortunate and I am thankful.”
“But why did you not write to me and tell me all this? Mr. Brush was sure you were dead, and I know the rest thought so, too, though they didn’t talk that way.”
“I did have a close call; I got the fever while in the hospital and didn’t know so much as my own name for several weeks. Then, when well enough to write, I concluded to come myself, believing I could keep up with any letter and you would be gladder to see me than to receive anything I might send.”