Once, while in the army, I had picked up a small white pebble on the battle-ground of Bull Run, intending to keep it as a relic of that famed field. I had put it in a port-monnaie, and carried it with me through all my battles. While lying in the barn alluded to, I had lost my port-monnaie, which only contained, besides the pebble, a small bit of white paper on which I had made some notes of marches and their dates; and since then I had scarcely given it a thought. In fact, it had gone quite out of my mind. Well, on Sunday morning, March twenty-sixth, 1865, before I left Mr. Pry’s house, Mrs. Pry showed me a small fancy basket of curiosities, such as little shells, bullets, and the like, and as she handed it to me to examine, she said: “You will find among those shells a little white pebble, to which there is probably some story attached.” “Ah?” I replied, moving the shells about. “How so?” “Why, I think,” said she, “that it must have been the property of some soldier who, no doubt, carried it as a relic. Our boys were fishing one day, not long ago, and one of them drew up on his hook a port-monnaie—and what a fish he thought he had!—when——” “A port-monnaie!” I exclaimed, as the recollection of my pebble suddenly flashed upon my mind for the first time since my leaving the army. “Yes,” she went on; “and in it was the pebble——” “And this is it!” I interrupted, as I found it at that moment among the shells and instantly recognized it by its peculiar shape and a little dark streak running through it. “Yes, that is it.” “And do you guess whose it is?” “Is it yours?” “Yes, ma’am. I recollect it distinctly now. I picked it up on the battle-field of Bull Run, when visiting the ground one day, before I had ever been in a fight, and carried it with me through all my campaigns, till wounded; and I lost it from my blouse pocket while lying in the barn. Was there not a piece of paper in the port-monnaie?” “Yes, so the boys said.” “With some marches and their dates noted down——” “Exactly.” “Well, is it not rather romantic!” “It is, indeed. The pebble is yours now. Take it.” “Thank you. I am indeed glad to see it again; but if you prefer to keep it, as you have established an undoubted right to it as property, by rescuing it from the depths of the waters, I will cheerfully leave it with you.” “No, no,” said the good lady. “It is a pleasure to me to be able to restore it to you, after the lapse of more than two years. I am so glad I happened to mention it. If I had read of such an incident I could scarcely have believed it.” “Nor any one. I thank you a thousand times! To think that, after thirty months, I should recover a little thing like that!—and that after it had been associating with the fish at the bottom of Antietam Creek! To think that it should so happen that I should stop at this house all night and that you should happen to mention it to me just before departing! It is indeed romantic!”