The barge stops, the party land; the shrill music, still dancing through the thick forest, re-echoes in soft chimes as it steals back upon the scene.  Another minute, and we hear the voices of Daddy Bob and Harry, Dandy and Enoch:  they are exchanging merry laughs, shouting in great good-nature, directing the smaller fry, who are fagging away at the larder, sucking the ice, and pocketing the lemons.  “Dat ain’t just straight, nohow:  got de tings ashore, an’ ye get ‘e share whin de white folk done!  Don’ make ’e nigger ob yourse’f, now, old Boss, doing the ting up so nice,” Daddy says, frowning on his minions.  A vanguard have proceeded in advance to take possession of the deserted house; while Aunt Rachel, with her cortŠge of feminines, is fussing over “young missus.”  Here, a group are adjusting their sun-shades; there, another are preparing their fans and nets.  Then they follow the train, Clotilda and Ellen leading their young representatives by the hand, bringing up the rear among a cluster of smaller fry.  Taking peaceable possession of the house, they commence to clear the rooms, the back ones being reserved for the sumptuous collation which Rachel and her juniors are preparing.  The musicians are mustered,—­the young belles and beaux, and not a few old bachelors, gather into the front room, commence the fˆtes with country dances, and conclude with the polka and schottische.

Rachel’s department presents a bustling picture; she is master of ceremonies, making her sombre minions move at her bidding, adjusting the various dishes upon the table.  None, not even the most favoured guests, dare intrude themselves into her apartments until she announces the completion of her tables, her readiness to receive friends.  And yet, amidst all this interest of character, this happy pleasantry, this seeming contentment, there is one group pauses ere it arrives at the house,—­dare not enter.  The distinction seems undefinable to us; but they, poor wretches, feel it deeply.  Shame rankles deep, to their very heart’s core.  They doubt their position, hesitate at the door, and, after several nervous attempts to enter, fall back,—­gather round a pine-tree, where they enjoy the day, separated from the rest.  There is a simplicity-a forlornness, about this little group, which attracts our attention, excites our sympathies, unbends our curiosity:  we would relieve the burden it labours under.  They are Ellen Juvarna, Clotilda, and their children.  Socially, they are disowned; they are not allowed to join the festivities with those in the dance, and their feelings revolt at being compelled to associate with the negroes.  They are as white as many of the whitest, have the same outlines of interest upon their faces; but their lives are sealed with the black seal of slavery.  Sensible of the injustice that has stripped them of their rights, they value their whiteness; the blood of birth tinges their face, and through it they find themselves mere dregs of human kind,—­objects of sensualism in its vilest associations.