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"The Lady in Milton's Comus has been the ideal of my imagination; and now here I am so strangely taken captive by " Rosabella entered at that moment, and almost startled him with the contrast to his ideal. Her glowing Oriental beauty and stately grace impressed him more than ever. Floracita's fairy form and airy motions were scarcely less fascinating. Their talk was very girlish.
The wind has broken it, and there it stands in front of the evergreen grove, with two arms spread out, and a knot like a head with a hat on it, and a streamer of moss hanging from it. It looks so white and strange in the moonlight, that it seems as if Floracita's spirit were beckoning to me. "But I didn't mean to write about sad things.
And when we get to France, Papasito will go everywhere with us. He says he will." "I should like to hear operas and see ballets in Paris," said Rosabella; "but I wish we could come back here before long." Floracita's laughing eyes assumed the arch expression which rendered them peculiarly bewitching, and she began to sing, "Petit blanc, mon bon frère! Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux!
When the weather became cooler, it was a favorite recreation with him to lounge at his ease, while Rosa played, and Floracita's fairy figure floated through the evolutions of some graceful dance. Sometimes he would laugh, and say: "Am I not a lucky dog? I don't envy the Grand Bashaw his Circassian beauties.
Rosabella's white muslin dress was trailed all over with delicately tinted roses, and the lace around the corsage was fastened in front with a mosaic basket of flowers. Floracita's black curls fell over her shoulders mixed with crimson fuchsias, and on each of her little slippers was embroidered a bouquet. "This is the Temple of Flora," said Alfred, turning to his host. "Flowers everywhere!
Floracita's natural taste for drawing had been cultivated by private lessons from a French lady, and she now used the pretty accomplishment to make likenesses of Thistle with and without garlands, of Tulee in her bright turban, and of Madame Guirlande's parrot, inscribed, "Bon jour, jolie Manon!"
There was the piano, so long unopened, with a whole epic of love and sorrow in its remembered tones; the pretty little table her mother had painted; the basket she had received from her father after his death; Floracita's paintings and mosses; and innumerable little tokens of Gerald's love.
Their unmodulated voices grated on his ear, in contrast with the liquid softness of Rosabella's tones, and the merry, musical tinkling of Floracita's prattle. All they could tell him was, that they heard the quadroons who used to be kept there by the gentleman that owned the house had gone to the North somewhere.
His attentions were more equally divided between the sisters. He often occupied himself with Floracita's work, and would pick out the shades of silk for her, as well as for Rosa. He more frequently called upon her to sing a solo, as well as to join in duets and trios.
Very few and very slender thoughts were conveyed in their words, but to the young man's ear they had the charm of music; for Floracita's talk went as trippingly as a lively dance, and the sweet modulations of Rosabella's voice so softened English to Italian sound, that her words seemed floating on a liquid element, like goldfish in the water.
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