The power of association brought back with life-like force to the father’s mind the soft, warm grasp of those dimpled, baby hands. Alas! they were now cold in death. The past arose before him--his early ambition--his happy marriage--his rapid and flattering success--his hope for higher honors--his wish for a son to transmit the pride of his name--his gratified desire. Before its fulfillment, the strongest principle of his mind was the longing for a son. Afterward, he had coveted worldly honors--he had garnered wealth that he might transmit to him the one and the other. Often, after the duties of the day, had he repaired to that child’s chamber and watched his slumber. How often for hours had he nursed it in his arms with all a woman’s tenderness and gushing joy. All his softer feelings--all his holier and better ones--such as even in the proudest bosom find root, turned toward this child.
From the soft and sinuous outline of the half-naked babe in the picture, his eye wandered to the face of the angel-like mother. Those clustering curls, those sparkling eyes, those blooming cheeks--for a moment they appeared before him, joyous, brilliant, beautiful and beloved. He pressed his hand hard with the clinch of suppressed emotion over his eyes, as the heavy tears fell upon the rich carpet, evidencing that under the crust of worldly intrigues was a heart that beat strongly. The grave had claimed both the dear ones whose likeness he looked upon--and now only a daughter was left to him. This daughter he loved, it is true, but she could not inherit his name, and every new acquisition of fortune or fame rendered him only the more anxious to perpetuate those empty distinctions to his race.
“My son, my son!” murmured the worldly man, “would to God that I could have died for thee.”
At that instant the great hall bell sounded, and an attendant shortly afterward entered the apartment, saying, “The Indian chief Tuscalameetah is below, and would speak with Gen. Lincoln on business of private import.”
In a few moments, a man entered in the wild accoutrements of a native of the woods. His closely-shaven head was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of a solitary plume that crossed his crown and hung over his shoulders. A tomahawk and scalping-knife were in his belt. He wore a hunting suit of forest green, with moccasons gayly ornamented, and his buckskin leggings laced at the side were gartered above the knee. His eye was quick and restless, roaming on every side of him, as from the habit of mistrusting the sudden approach of an enemy.