"That is my home. When I first came here, the place where it stands
was a field of sugar-canes; but the city is fast stretching itself
into the suburbs."

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