The child looked up in the beautiful, agitated face with surprise.

"He would never do that. Mamma, never. In the first place, nobody on earth could take me away from my darling mamma. Then he wouldn't take me away if he could. That would be too mean for any thing, and Squire says my papa is a splendid gentleman."

Mrs. Marsden made no reply to this. She sat gazing dreamily into the glowing fire. Splendid? Yes, that was what she thought him before the hard feeling came between them. She recalled his eyes, glowing—tender. Her little daughter had them exactly. Those ardent glances had so bewitched her she could have followed them to the ends of the earth.

"Suppose he should die, poor papa, all by himself? Squire says he is very, very sick."

"God forbid!" cried Mrs. Marsden, "God forbid."

"If papa has come all the way down to Kentucky," continued Roberta, "I don't believe he came down here just to fight us, I don't indeed. It looks to me more like he is hunting for somebody. And who should that somebody be but my own darling mamma?"

"It isn't probable he is hunting me, darling. It has been ten long years since he went away. He knows where the old place is. He could have found me easily enough."

"Well, but may be he wasn't exactly sure about you wanting him to come. He might have wanted ever so bad to come himself, and yet been afraid you didn't want him. I wouldn't go where I wasn't sure I was wanted," continued the child, a fine scorn curving her lips, "no, not for any thing."

How much she looked like her father when she said that.

"May I go, Mamma?" she coaxed again. "Say yes, dear Mamma. You don't know how I've longed to have a papa like other little girls."

Then the sorely tried heart gave a great leap and got way beyond self.

"Yes, you may go, darling," she cried; "and may the God of the pure in heart watch over you and bring you back safely to your lonely mother."

The child coddled down again to her.

"What must I tell him for you, Mamma?" she asked.

Mrs. Marsden started. She had not expected that.

"Send him kind message, Mamma, just like your own sweet self. You are so good to everybody, and he is your little daughter's papa, and you love him dearly, don't you, dear Mamma?"

Then the woman-heart gave a great leap and reached out to that other heart the child was pleading for, and it seemed as if they touched, although miles separated them, and pride lay prostrate.

"I have erred," she reasoned dumbly, "erred in the sight of God and man. I have been hard, hard. What right have I to hold him to so strict an account? By my own contrition and unutterable yearning to behold his face, will I judge him, and naught else, the husband of my youth, once the delight of my eyes."

Then, having gone thus far, she could stop at nothing. Her eyes shone, varying emotions chased over her beautiful face, her whole nature unbent, tender, as when she stood in that room in the old days and heard the benediction that pronounced them man and wife.

"O, you dear child!" she cried, "surely God has put in your little hands the gift of healing. Tell him, tell him, your Father, that for ten long years, the string has been on the outside of the latch for him. Tell him"—then, utterly unable to say more, she bowed her head and wept. Roberta clung to her and caressed her. That phase of her mother's character touched her unspeakably, young as she was. She never forgot it. It was a revelation of how blessed a possession is the heart that is incapable of cherishing resentment.

"O, you darling mother!" she cried, "I don't believe God's angels are any sweeter than you."

When Roberta and old Squire reached the house where they had been told Colonel Marsden was lying sick they saw an officer sitting in the front room, writing busily by a table. He looked up as they entered, startled by the vision of childish beauty before him. Roberta's scarlet hood, edged with swansdown, was pushed back, and her hair lay in fluffy golden rings on her white forehead. Her cloak, the color of her hood, was bordered with the same snowy, feathery trimming. She carried in her hand a tiny, swansdown muff. The rich blood of health mantled her cheek. Her eyes were like stars. Where had he seen them before, those wondrously beautiful eyes?

In person and manner Roberta was like her mother, but her features were her father's. A little aristocrat she was, from the poise of her golden head to the tip of her prunella boots.

"Well," said the officer, laying down his pen, "what can I do for you, little lady?"

The child turned to Squire, who came forward and stood in embarrassed silence, uneasily shifting his position from one foot to the other. He had been advised by saucy Polly "not ter skeer fo'ks ter def by de way he dun his face," and he was a little out of his moorings. But finally he managed to say:

"It's Mars Robert Marsden, sah, dat me and Lil Missus wan'er see."

"Well, who is Lil Missus? and what is she to Colonel Marsden?"

His admiring gaze was directed again to the child.

"Shee's his own flesh en blood, sah; nuffin' shorter; hees lil gal dat wuz born'd arfter he wen' back ter N'ark."

"Whew," whistled the officer; "I didn't know Colonel Marsden was a family man. That accounts for many things, I have always thought peculiar in a man of his attractive personality. Well, I am sure I envy him his newly found daughter. Wait here a little, and I will see if the Colonel is awake. He is convalescent now, and will doubtless be glad to see you both."

He returned in a moment and said, "Colonel Marsden is asleep, and I thought best not to awaken him; but you shall see him," he said to Roberta, "just as soon as he awakes."

The child could not repress her eagerness.

"I can't wait," she cried; "I want to see him so bad. Let me go in and look at him while he is asleep. I won't make any noise. That's the way I do mamma when she has headache."

"Well," said the officer, smiling, "go right in."

Squire started to follow.

"No; you wait outside. Two at once might make him a little nervous. He has been a very sick man."

Roberta crept softly in on tiptoe. The room was darkened, and there was no light save the reflection of the fire. Colonel Marsden was, in health, a superbly handsome man. But, as he lay there in the dim light, emaciated and pallid, there was something almost touching in the droop of his shoulders and the look of helpless weakness about the mouth. It was not long before he stirred uneasily and opened his eyes. His gaze fell directly on the child sitting beside him and looking at him with her whole heart in her eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Roberta Marsden. My papa's name is Robert, and my mamma called me Roberta after him."



He raised himself upon one elbow. A flush burned in his cheeks. It was like a flame through alabaster.

"I don't understand," he said; "what does it all mean?"

Right there old Squire put in an appearance.

"Don't you know me, Mars Robert? It's Squire dat useter 'long ter you."

"Yes; I know you. How are you, Squire? But this child, who is she?"

"Your own flesh an' blood, Mars Robert, born'd after you went away an' left Miss July."

Colonel Marsden sank back on the pillow with a groan and covered his eyes with his hands.

"O, Uncle Squire!" cried Roberta, "you have hurt his feelings. But she isn't mad at you, Papa, not a bit. She told me to tell you, that for ten long years the string has been on the outside of the latch for you. She did indeed, Papa."

"She is an angel," said Colonel Marsden. There was moisture in his fine eyes.

"That's what Mam' Sarah says. She says she is afraid every morning that she will find mamma's wings sprouting."

"But why was I not written to? Why was I not told I had a child?" Again a groan escaped him. "My God!" he cried, "I forgot I had no right to expect that. Like a self-willed child I wantonly threw away life's choicest blessings, was unmindful of its most sacred obligations."

His lips moved for an instant in silent prayer, and then he stretched out his arms yearningly toward the child and asked almost humbly:

"Will my little daughter give me a kiss?"

The child crept to him and kissed him again and again.

"I do not deserve this blessing from Heaven; I do not deserve this darling little daughter."

"And you have the darlingest and most beautiful wife in all the world!" cried the child.

"Lawd, honey!" said old Squire—he was in a broad grin—"he know'd her long fo' you did."

"Is she like this?" asked Colonel Marsden.

He reached under his pillow and drew thence a small square case and handed it to Roberta.

Roberta fairly screamed: "It's my mamma; it's my own darling mamma! Now I know how much you love her, or you wouldn't carry her picture about with you."

"It has never been away from me an instant, never one instant."

"Why did you stay away from her so long if you loved her so dearly?" Her great brown eyes were lifted in wonder to his face. "I can't stay away from her a single day. Sometimes, even when I'm just out in the yard playing, I have to come back and peep at mamma, to be sure she is there."

A red flush mounted to Colonel Marsden's temples.

"I must tell her first, little daughter; and if she forgives me, will not you?"

"O yes!" cried the child delightedly. "I won't wait for you to tell me. I'll forgive you right now, before I know, and so will mamma. Mam' Sarah says it makes you feel good all over to forgive people, 'sho' 'nuff.'" Then, her tender heart touched by the appealing look in Colonel Marsden's eyes, she added: "Mamma says we must have faith in people and not blame 'em, but believe that nearly everybody does the very best they can. And we don't know, even when they do wrong, what makes 'em. You know, Papa," continued the little theologian gravely, "nobody ever does exactly right in this world."

When old Squire and Roberta returned home they found Aunt Betsy very sick, and Mrs. Marsden entirely occupied at her bed-side. It was a great disappointment to the child, she was so eager to bring father and mother together, but Mrs. Marsden was firm.

"Your father does not need me, darling; but she does. And it is right always to take up the duty that is nearest."

It was an anxious night; but when morning came the sick woman was better, and resting easily. Soon after breakfast, as Mrs. Marsden and Roberta were standing by the window in the sitting-room, and looking out at the yard, bathed in light and sparkling with dew, an ambulance appeared in the avenue. It stopped in front of the porch; two officers descended from it and assisted a third one down the steps, then they supported him to the door.

"It's papa," cried Roberta; "he is like me, he couldn't wait."

She ran to meet him, beaming with joy, and led him to the sitting-room, opened the door for him, and, with strange tact in a child so young, left father and mother alone together. Robert Marsden was once more in the quaint old room where he first courted his wife. He was ready to do the courting all over again, glad of the opportunity and thankful for the familiar associations that would naturally appeal to both. The room was very little changed. The wear is less in the country, and then Dame Fashion, our capricious queen, is not so absolute there. When he last saw it, 'twas in the early morning. He remembered so well what took him there. The night before they had one of their heated discussions about selling the negroes, selling the old place, and moving north. When his wife turned to leave the room there was something in her figure and bearing that stirred him strangely. Before he retired, feeling that he had a strong additional claim upon her, as one would reasonably have, upon whom rested the responsibility of providing for a family, he wrote to her, and of course in his masterful way urged her to accede to his request. "Sleep on it," he wrote, "and let me know before I leave in the morning" (he was going north on business). "Send your reply to the sitting-room, only a line, telling me I am free to make my business arrangements in New York, and return for you."

As he recalled the way in which he expressed himself, a qualm of shame crossed his heart. "A selfish brute!" he groaned in spirit: "never occurring to him to yield, always trying to bend her." Well, there was nothing for him that morning, and he had gone off with a hot heart, feeling that any thing was better than the life of disinclination he was forced to lead, if he remained. Yes, the room was as little changed as she, there, coming toward him with outstretched hands.

Although her eyes fell beneath his searching glances, and hot blushes suffused her cheeks, she, the mother of his child and many years gone his wife, he did not move one step to meet her advances. O, her pitiable confusion!

"Our child," he said, "the beautiful little daughter you have given me, tells me you still care for me, though, God knows, I don't see how you could, except that it is your nature and you can't help it. But what I want to know is this, has the outrage I put upon you caused the fire, that once burned in your heart for me, to smoulder to ashes, where only a pleasant warmth remains, or is there still fire there that I can rekindle to the old-time blaze, no matter what the effort required? What I want, Julia, is my old place in your heart, if I can have it. I was never a man that could do things in moderation; and, God help me, undeserving as I am, that and that alone will satisfy me."

"The fire still burns, my husband; O, how can you doubt it?"

And then the hungry arms closed about her. After a little, when she had fixed him cosily on the couch and was kneeling beside him, he said:

"I am not by nature an humble man, nor one glib at confession; but there is one thing I will say, my love, this choleric temperament of mine has been to me severer flagellation than was ever administered by priestly hands in expiation of heinous offenses. But I will down it yet, my love; God helping me, I will down it yet."

The door opened and a golden head was visible.

"May I come in, dear Mamma?"

Colonel Marsden stretched forth his disengaged hand and drew the child to him.

"She is like you, love," he said fondly.

"Her eyes are yours, Robert. I remember, when she was a baby, how I used to hang over her, longing for her to awaken, that I might see her eyes."

Colonel Marsden's grasp tightened on his wife's slender white fingers.

"Mam' Sarah was afraid I would make her nervous. She would steal her away, carry her down to the loom-house, and rock her to sleep on her lap."

"I remember it perfectly, Mamma," said Roberta, grave as an owl. "I wore the same robe and cloak and cap that I dressed the gun in that time."

Colonel Marsden laughed heartily; her diverting words, coming just at that moment, were a relief to both. The negroes had talked to the child so much about her birth and babyhood, she had come to believe that she remembered them herself. Every date of late years went back to the time "fo' Lil Missus wuz born'd," or the time "sence she was born'd," or the time "when she was born'd." Old Squire especially humored the conceit:

"Lemme see, Lil Missus; what room?"

"The front room up stairs, Uncle Squire, with the sweet-brier roses climbing in the window, and the beautiful red and black rag carpet Mam' Sarah made."

"Jes' so, Lil Missus; what bed?"

"The great high bed, with the posts and tester and muslin ruffle, I remember Aunt Betsy put a little Bible in my hand as soon as I was born, and shut my fingers down tight on it, because she wanted me to love the Bible first, before every thing."

"Jes' so, Lil Missus; jes' so. I allers sed you wuzer sharp one. But who'd s'poze, now, you cud rikerlec so fur back? He-he-he."

Roberta cuddled down, like a kitten, on the rug before the blazing fire, and looked delightedly at her mother and father.

"Real papas are so much nicer than make-believe papas. I don't think I can play that way again; it makes me hungry to see the difference. O, I wish Uncle Charlie was here, too, and that other one."

"I would like to see Uncle Charlie, too" (Colonel Marsden turned laughingly to his wife), "but I don't wish he was here. I remember what a pet he was of yours in the old days, love—the curly-haired scamp. He could wheedle you and Aunt Betsy out of any thing he wanted. Such a tender heart he had—mad as fire one minute, and tears in his eyes the next—but withal so fearless and high-minded and lovable."

"God bless and watch over him," Mrs. Marsden softly added, "and bring him back safely to us all, my dear, my only brother."

"Amen," responded Colonel Marsden.

Good-bye to Roberta Marsden's child-life on the old farm! Good-bye to the child mind that thought no evil; to the child-heart that reached out to all other hearts, and drew them within a charmed circle of affection! Good-bye to the kindly black faces that the child loved, and the simple, homely lives she saw so much beauty in! Good-bye to the old house that she loved, with Carlo, the watchdog, dozing on the porch in the sunshine; and the peafowl close by, spreading his wondrous-hued tail and strutting; to the old parlor, with its quaint papering and quaint furnishing suggesting dead and gone generations!

Good-bye to the old farm, with its peaceful, busy days; its glad days and its sad days; its merry songsters and its whip-poor-wills; its old-time industries and its hearty hospitalities! Good-bye!

THE END