Delavan was at Rhoda’s elbow, looking at the miniature with her, and now and then stealing a glance from the portrait to the girl’s face. “You needn’t do that, Jeff,” Mrs. Ware smiled at him, “for you can’t find the least resemblance to me in Rhoda’s features. She’s like her father in looks and disposition and everything,” and her eyes rested fondly upon her first-born. “But how much it is like Charlotte!” Rhoda insisted, and pointed out the likeness in mouth and chin, nose and brow, in expression and in coloring. Moved to tender retrospection by the memories that came crowding upon her, she told them about her courtship and marriage. “It was at White Sulphur Springs that I first met your father, Rhoda,” she said, “and from the very start he never seemed to have eyes for anybody but me. He was from the North, you know, from Providence, and he was taking a horseback trip through the South for his health. He had letters to the Colbys, good friends of ours who were there too, and so I soon met him. Ah, what happy times we used to have at White Sulphur!” and she went on to tell of rides and dances and flirtations in which they heard the names of gay young gallants, known to them now as men of prominence in Washington or capital cities in the South. “But father--what became of him?” reminded Rhoda. “Oh, he was always wherever I was, as long as he stayed at the Springs, that summer. Afterwards he was with the Colbys, who owned the next plantation to ours, tutoring their boys. That was such a gay winter--something going on all the time--dear me!” She broke off into a happy little laugh and the spirit of that long dead time flared up again in the instinctive coquetry with which she tossed her head, moved in her chair and flourished her fan. Delavan looked at her and smiled, thinking of the Amos M. Ware of those days and wondering what would be his account of that winter. Rhoda’s eyes noted the movement and the expression and she thought, “That’s just like Charlotte!”