“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.”