"I've no doubt that you do," Bobs said, eyeing her sister almost coldly. "I sometimes wonder where our mother got you, anyway. You haven't one resemblance to that dear little woman who, when the squalid hamlet down by the sound was burned, opened her home and took them all in. We were too small to remember it ourselves, but I've heard Father tell about it time and again, and he would always end the story by saying, 'My dearest wish is that my four girls each grow up to be just such an angel woman as their mother was.'"