“Let her do as she likes, Rosa dear,” said her father.  “She is used to being my little plaything, and I can’t spare her to be a woman yet.”

“I consider it a compliment to forget that I am a stranger,” said Mr. King.  “For my own part, I forgot it entirely before I had been in the house ten minutes.”

Rosabella thanked him with a quiet smile and a slight inclination of her head.  Floracita, notwithstanding this encouragement, paused in her merriment; and Mr. Royal began to talk over reminiscences connected with Alfred’s father.  When they rose from table, he said, “Come here, Mignonne!  We won’t be afraid of the Boston gentleman, will we?” Floracita sprang to his side.  He passed his arm fondly round her, and, waiting for his guest and his elder daughter to precede them, they returned to the room they had left.  They had scarcely entered it, when Floracita darted to the window, and, peering forth into the twilight, she looked back roguishly at her sister, and began to sing:—­

  “Un petit blanc, que j’aime,
  En ces lieux est venu. 
  Oui! oui! c’est lui meme! 
  C’est lui! je l’ai vue! 
    Petit blanc! mon bon frere! 
    Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux!”

The progress of her song was checked by the entrance of a gentleman, who was introduced to Alfred as Mr. Fitzgerald from Savannah.  His handsome person reminded one of an Italian tenor singer, and his manner was a graceful mixture of hauteur and insinuating courtesy.  After a brief interchange of salutations, he said to Floracita, “I heard some notes of a lively little French tune, that went so trippingly I should be delighted to hear more of it.”

Floracita had accidentally overheard some half-whispered words which Mr. Fitzgerald had addressed to her sister, during his last visit, and, thinking she had discovered an important secret, she was disposed to use her power mischievously.  Without waiting for a repetition of his request, she sang:—­

  “Petit blanc, mon bon frere! 
  Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux! 
  Il n’y a rien sur la terre
  De si joli que vous.”

While she was singing, she darted roguish glances at her sister, whose cheeks glowed like the sun-ripened side of a golden apricot.  Her father touched her shoulder, and said in a tone of annoyance, “Don’t sing that foolish song, Mignonne!” She turned to him quickly with a look of surprise; for she was accustomed only to endearments from him.  In answer to her look, he added, in a gentler tone, “You know I told you I wanted my friend to see you dance.  Select one of your prettiest, ma petite, and Rosabella will play it for you.”