“But, honey, de tatoe ain’t roas’ yet!” replied the old woman, as she raked the ashes over the sweet root. “Well, aunty, when the potatoe is done you send Tarquinius for me, and I’ll come out here and eat it.” “Yes, honey! yes, my baby! and when you go in house you jes speak to Miss Sophie ’bout ’Quinius ’Perbus; he too much mun—don’t min’ nuffin ‘tall I say, till I have to switch him some ob dese days; you min’ now.” And they left the kitchen. Rosalia Aguilar had come home to no very near relations, to no mother, father, sister, or brother; yet never did any child returning to idolizing parents meet with a more tender and enthusiastic reception, from Sophie down to old Cumbo, and thence down to the cat that ran between her feet, crossing before them, rubbing her sides against them, and impeding her steps as she walked into the drawing-room. A low murmur of irrepressible admiration saluted her as she entered—old friends then crowded around, and new acquaintances were introduced to her, and it was half an hour before the beauty and the pet was left in quiet possession of her sofa. Sophie sat on one side of her, Captain Wilde on the other. At this moment Raymond Withers entered the room bowing and smiling, and passing up to Hagar, who stood by one of the open windows, he said— “Which is your cousin?—I have not been introduced to her yet.” “Have you not?—I will present you, then,—but first,” said Hagar, covertly watching his countenance, “look at her and tell me what you think of her. There, now you have a good opportunity of observing her without attracting her notice; there she is, seated between Sophie and Captain Wilde, talking with the latter.” Raymond’s eyes followed the indication of her glance. Rosalia’s form was slightly bent towards Captain Wilde, and her face was softening and glowing under the inspiration of their conversation. Raymond slightly started—his gaze became fixed—absorbed—Hagar’s eyes burned into his countenance, but he did not feel it. “Well,” at last she said, “what do you think of her?” He did not reply—his eyes were riveted upon the group on the sofa. Hagar’s eyes were fixed on his face—her lips compressed until the blood left them pale. “Well,” she said, again, speaking very slowly and distinctly, “what do you think of Rosalia?” He did not seem to hear her; his soul was absorbed. Now all the fire seemed to have left Hagar’s lips and cheeks, and to be concentrated in the intensely glowing eyes that burned into the face of her husband, and he did not feel it! At last a motion, a change of attitude, a raising of Rosalia’s eyes, dissolved the spell, and he turned to Hagar. “Well,” said she, with pale lips, “how do you like her?”