[Picture: The old bridge of Battersea] So over the old bridge they went; resting now and then upon the worn ballustrades of the rough structure, to gaze over the bosom of the richest and most glorious—to my thinking, I may add, the most calmly beautiful—of all the rivers of the world. Standing upon this bridge, a forest of masts is seen in the distance;—indications of the traffic which brings the wealth of a thousand seaports to our city quays. “The mighty heart” of a great Nation is sending thence its life-streams over earth. Glorious and mighty, and—spite of its few drawbacks—good and happy England! Turning westward, the tranquil and gentle waters of “The most loved of all the ocean’s sons,” are washing the banks of many a lordly villa and cottage, where the hands of industry are busied every day. And within sight, too, are places memorable in the annals of “holiday folk.” How closely linked with remembrances of hosts of “honest citizens,” is “the Red House, at Battersea,”—relic of those ancient “tea-gardens,” which even now are beginning to belong to the history of the past. “Pleasant village of Chelsea,” how abundant is its treasure of associations with the olden time! Not a house is there, or within view of it, to which some worthy memory may not be traced. Alas! they grow less and less in number every day! [Picture: Chelsea windmill?] But I have made a long digression from my story. During their walk the old soldier narrowly watched his child, to ascertain if she placed her hand on her heart, or her side; but she did not. She spoke kindly to the little children who crossed their path; and the dogs wagged their tails when they looked into her face. She walked, he thought, stoutly for a woman; and seemed so well, that he began talking to her about sieges, and marches, and of his early adventures; and then they sat down and rested; Lucy getting in a word, now and then, about the freshness and beauty of the country, and the goodness of God, and looking so happy and so animated that her father forgot all his fears on her account. Many persons, attracted by the fineness of the day, were strolling up and down Cheyne-walk as the father and daughter returned; and a group at the entrance to the famous Don Saltero Coffee-house, regarded her, as she passed, with such evident respect and admiration, that the sergeant-major felt more proud and happy than he had done for a very long time. In the evening, he smoked his long inlaid foreign pipe (which the little children, as well as the “big people” of Chelsea, regarded with peculiar admiration,) out of the parlour window. [Picture: Lucy and her father]