They approached the dwelling; and in answer to the bell, the door was opened by a comely young negress, with a turban of bright colors on her head and golden hoops in her ears.  Before the gentlemen had disposed of their hats and canes, a light little figure bounded from one of the rooms, clapping her hands, and exclaiming, “Ah, Papasito!” Then, seeing a stranger with him, she suddenly stood still, with a pretty look of blushing surprise.

“Never mind, Mignonne,” said her father, fondly patting her head.  “This is Alfred Royal King, from Boston; my namesake, and the son of a dear old friend of mine.  I have invited him to see you dance.  Mr. King, this is my Floracita.”

The fairy dotted a courtesy, quickly and gracefully as a butterfly touching a flower, and then darted back into the room she had left.  There they were met by a taller young lady, who was introduced as “My daughter Rosabella.”  Her beauty was superlative and peculiar.  Her complexion was like a glowing reflection upon ivory from gold in the sunshine.  Her large brown eyes were deeply fringed, and lambent with interior light.  Lustrous dark brown hair shaded her forehead in little waves, slight as the rippling of water touched by an insect’s wing.  It was arranged at the back of her head in circling braids, over which fell clusters of ringlets, with moss-rose-buds nestling among them.  Her full, red lips were beautifully shaped, and wore a mingled expression of dignity and sweetness.  The line from ear to chin was that perfect oval which artists love, and the carriage of her head was like one born to a kingdom.

Floracita, though strikingly handsome, was of a model less superb than her elder sister.  She was a charming little brunette, with laughter always lurking in ambush within her sparkling black eyes, a mouth like “Cupid’s bow carved in coral,” and dimples in her cheeks, that well deserved their French name, berceaux d’amour.

These radiant visions of beauty took Alfred King so much by surprise, that he was for a moment confused.  But he soon recovered self-possession, and, after the usual salutations, took a seat offered him near a window overlooking the garden.  While the commonplaces of conversation were interchanged, he could not but notice the floral appearance of the room.  The ample white lace curtains were surmounted by festoons of artificial roses, caught up by a bird of paradise.  On the ceiling was an exquisitely painted garland, from the centre of which hung a tasteful basket of natural flowers, with delicate vine-tresses drooping over its edge.  The walls were papered with bright arabesques of flowers, interspersed with birds and butterflies.  In one corner a statuette of Flora looked down upon a geranium covered with a profusion of rich blossoms.  In the opposite corner, ivy was trained to form a dark background for Canova’s “Dancer in Repose,” over whose arm was thrown a wreath of interwoven vines and orange-blossoms.