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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "My Papa's name was Robert, and my Mamma named 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 G.o.d!" 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, "n.o.body 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 a.s.sisted 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 a.s.sociations 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, G.o.d 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, G.o.d 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; G.o.d 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."