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?"