mother of Annette, a little girl of remarkable beauty, sitting at
her side, playing with her left hand. Annette is fair, has light
auburn hair-not the first tinge of her mother's olive invades her
features. Her little cheerful face is lit up with a smile, and while
toying with the rings on her mother's fingers, asks questions that
person does not seem inclined to answer. Vivacious and sprightly,
she chatters and lisps until we become eager for her history. "It's
only a child's history," some would say. But the mother displays so
much fondness for it; and yet we become more and more excited by the
strange manner in which she tries to suppress an outward display of
her feelings. At times she pats it gently on the head, runs her
hands through its hair, and twists the ends into tiny ringlets.

In the next cabin we meet the shortish figure of a tawny female,
whose Indian features stand boldly out. Her high cheek bones, long
glossy black hair, and flashing eyes, are the indexes of her
pedigree. "My master says I am a slave:" in broken accents she
answers our question. As she sits in her chair near the fire-place
of bricks, a male issue of the mixed blood toddles round and round
her, tossing her long coarse hair every time he makes a circut. The
little boy is much fairer than the brawny daughter who seems his
mother. Playful, and even mischievous, he delights in pulling the
hair which curls over his head; and when the woman calls him he
answers with a childish heedlessness, and runs for the door. Reader!
this woman's name is Ellen Juvarna; she has youth on her side, and
though she retains the name of her ancient sire, is proud of being
master's mistress. She tells us how comfortable she is; how
Nicholas, for such is his name, resembles his father, how he loves
him, but how he fails to acknowledge him. A feud, with its
consequences, is kept up between the two cabins; and while she makes