In a large but well-arranged apartment, whose open _jalousies_ admitted the evening breeze, loaded with the fragrance of the Arabian jasmine, were seated three persons. Two out of the group ranked under the lofty title of “lords of the creation;” but the third was a young and beautiful creature, whose elegant figure and flowing ringlets bespoke her one of Nature’s fairest flowers. Reclining upon a _fauteuil_, she drew from a lute sounds so soft and sweet that every sense was held in thraldom; and anon, when she joined her liquid voice, and sang of other days, few were there who would wish to break the spell. But the spell was ordained to be broken—broken in a sudden manner. The door opened hastily, and a negro, darting into the middle of the room, exclaimed, in a voice of terror—“Massa, me must speak with you!”— “What’s the matter?” returned our elder acquaintance, rising up, “what’s the matter, Cuffee? You frightened us by your sudden entrance, and sent my Marien’s roses back to her heart.”—“Beg your pardon, massa, and yours, young missis, but me have something to tell you make your ears ring again: but, massa, where’s Julio?—please let him come in.” And without waiting for an answer, he left the room in search of the boy. “Marien, dearest,” said her father, “take your cousin’s arm, and retire for a little, until I have heard what the mad fellow has to say: his foolish nonsense has frightened you more than I like to see.” And fondly pressing his daughter’s hand, he led her to the door.