"I was about to add that I learned from my father the following account of it. He told me (but I am sure this is not known to any out of our own family) that as Dr. Lindhorst was returning home after his second long absence, he entered a small village near Turin, just as a detachment of 'The Army of Italy' were leaving it. The rear presented the usual motley collection of baggage-wagons, disabled soldiers, sutlers, camp-women, and hangers-on of all sorts, who attend in the steps of a victorious troop. As Paul Lindhorst stopped to view the spectacle, and while the wild strains of music could be heard echoing and re-echoing as the columns defiled around the brow of a mountain which shut them from his sight, the rear of the detachment came up and passed. At a short distance behind, a child, scarcely four years of age, without shoes or stockings, and thinly clad, her hair streaming in the wind, ran by as fast as her little feet could carry her, screaming, in a tone of agony and terror, 'Wait for me, mamma!' 'Here I am, mamma!' 'Do dot leave me, mamma!' '_Do_ wait for me!' Paul Lindhorst sprang forward, and taking the child in his arms, he hastened to overtake the detachment, supposing that by some accident the little creature had been overlooked. On coming up, he inquired for the child's mother. "'Bless me!' said one of the women, 'if there is not poor little Annette!' "'We can't take her; that's positive,' cried another. "'How did she get here?' exclaimed a third. "'Something must be done,' said a wounded soldier, in a compassionate tone. 'Give her to me; I will carry her in my arms;' and taking the little Annette, who recognized in him an old acquaintance, he easily quieted her by saying her mamma would come very soon.