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