“Lulu, sissy, papa’s come; this is papa,” the little boy cried, assuming the honor of the introduction.
Lulu, as they called her, was not afraid of the tall soldier, and stretching out her fat, white hands, went to him readily. Blue-eyed and golden haired, she bore but little resemblance to either father or mother, but there was a sweet, beautiful face, of which Maddy had often dreamed, but never seen, and whether it were in the infantile features of his little girl. Parting lovingly her yellow curls and kissing her fair cheek, he said to Maddy, softly, just as he always spoke of that dead one:
“Maddy, darling, Margaret Holbrook is right—our baby daughter is very much like our dear lost Lucy Atherstone.”