“I love her!” continued Marston; “and, as well as she could a father, she loves me, making time pass pleasantly with her cheerfulness.”  She was the child of his affections; and as he spoke his face glowed with animation.  Scarce seventeen summers had bloomed upon his fair niece, who, though well developed in form, was of a delicate constitution, and had inherited that sensitiveness so peculiar to the child of the South, especially she who has been cradled in the nursery of ease and refinement.  As she spoke, smiled, and raised her jewelled fingers, the grace accompanying the words was expressive of love and tenderness.  Turning to the gentleman who accompanied her, “My friend!” she added, simply, with a frolicsome laugh.  A dozen anxious black faces were now watching in the hall, ready to scamper round her ere she made her appearance to say, “How de’h!” to young Missus, and get a glimpse at her stranger friend.  After receiving a happy salute from the old servants, she re-enters the room.  “Uncle’s always drinking wine when I come;-but Uncle forgets me; he has not so much as once asked me to join him!” She lays her hand on his arm playfully, smiles cunningly, points reproachfully at the Elder, and takes a seat at her uncle’s side.  The wine has seized the Elder’s mind; he stares at her through his spectacles, and holds his glass with his left hand.

“Come, Dandy,” said Marston, addressing himself to the mulatto attendant, “bring a glass; she shall join us.”  The glass is brought, Marston fills it, she bows, they drink to her and to the buoyant spirits of the noble southern lady.  “I don’t admire the habit; but I do like to please so,” she whispers, and, excusing herself, skips into the parlour on the right, where she is again beset by the old servants, who rush to her, shake her hand, cling playfully to her dress:  some present various new-plucked flowers others are become noisy with their chattering jargon.  At length she is so beset with the display of their affection as to be compelled to break away from them, and call for Clotilda.  “I must have Clotilda!” she says:  “Tell her to come soon, Dandy:  she alone can arrange my dress.”  Thus saying, she disappeared up a winding stair leading from the hall into the second story.

We were anxious to know who Clotilda was, and why Franconia should summon her with so much solicitude.  Presently a door opened:  Franconia appeared at the top of the stairs, her face glowing with vivacity, her hair dishevelled waving in beautiful confusion, giving a fascination to her person.  “I do wish she would come, I do!” she mutters, resting her hands upon the banisters, and looking intently into the passage:  “she thinks more of fussing over Annette’s hair, than she does about taking care of mine.  Well, I won’t get cross-I won’t!  Poor Clotilda, I do like her; I can’t help it; it is no more than natural that she should evince so much solicitude for her child:  we would do the same.”  Scarcely had she uttered these