"No one will ever call me _father_," he wrote, "and I am
lonely in my Indian home, lined all over, as it is, with gold, and
sometimes, Dora, since I have heard of you, orphaned thus early, I
have thought I would return to America, and seeking out some
pleasant spot, would build a home for you and me. And this I would
do, were I sure that I was wanted there--that you would be happier
with me than with your aunt and cousins. Are they kind to you, my
child? Sometimes, in my reveries, I have fancied they were not--
have dreamed of a girlish face, with locks like that against which
my old heart is beating, and eyes of deep dark blue, looking
wistfully at me, across the waste of waters, and telling me of
cruel neglect and indifference. Were this indeed so, not all India
would keep me a moment from your side.
"Write to me, Dora, and tell me of yourself, that I may judge
something of your character. Tell me, too, if you ever think of
the lonesome old man, who, each night of his life, remembers you
in his prayers, asking that if on earth he may never look on
_Fannie's_ child, he may at last meet and know her in the
better land.
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