In one of the deep window recesses Roberta had set up her entire doll family to housekeeping.  She was very fond of her dolls.  The mother instinct in her was developed very early.  She had wax dolls and china dolls and rag dolls.  Mrs. Marsden painted features on the rag dolls, and they looked very natural.  There was Miss Prim and Miss Slim, Mrs. Jolly and Mrs. Folly, Miss Snappy and Miss Happy, named from their different expressions.  Roberta had the quaintest way of talking to her dolls.  She had caught some of Aunt Betsy’s old-time ideas: 

“Straighter, my dears, straighter.  One’s spine should never touch the back of a chair,” and, “Don’t rest your elbows on the table while you are eating; my great-grandmother used to keep cushions stuffed with pins to slip under the children’s elbows,” etc.

Her favorite dolls were the figures cut out of the fashion plates of Godey’s Lady’s Book.  She was an artist with her fingers, if there was a pair of scissors in them.  So she took sheets of different colored tissue-paper, cut dresses, and fitted them nicely on her dolls.  Each doll had a variety.

I believe she thought her dolls looked cosier at the dinner-table than anywhere else, and she kept them sitting there a great deal.  Sometimes Polly, who seemed born to make trouble, would roll her eyes at the dolls and say, “You iz de greedes’ things.  Whar iz you gwiner to put it?”

Then, of course, Roberta would feel obliged to take some notice of their sitting at the table so long:  “Come, get down now, dears.  Little ladies should not appear greedy.”

Roberta was very much like some mothers of real children, who will wink at what their little ones do at one time, and, if a neighbor drops in at another, who is not of the same way of thinking, scold the poor children for doing those very things they had winked at before.  But Roberta did not have it in her heart to scold anybody much, not even that impish Polly, who would go around after she had provoked her little mistress beyond endurance, sniffling and singing in a dolorous tone,

    Whar she goes en how she fars,
    Nobody knows en nobody kyars.

and invariably wind up by getting the very playthings she wanted from Roberta as a peace offering.

I must not forget to tell you about Roberta’s Sunday School for little negro children.  If the child didn’t always keep perfect order and make the headway she would have liked, it wasn’t because she didn’t try.  Her whole heart was in the work.  She really was very intelligent, and Aunt Betsy said, “If there was such a thing as anybody being born in this world a Christian, she believed Roberta was.”  I think she must have had the germ of object teaching—­that is the fad now—­in her nature, she could paint such vivid mental pictures to convey an idea.  Once she was telling Polly about God’s punishment of sinners, and Polly said, “Lawdy, Lil Missus, I feel dem blazes creepen’ all over me dis minit.”  She had a great deal to contend with, almost as much as Mrs. Marsden had, in getting the older negroes to come in to prayers.  Nine times out of ten, when she rang the bell for them Sunday morning, Squire would put his head in the door and say: