On brackets and tables were a variety of natural flowers in vases of Sevres china, whereon the best artists of France had painted flowers in all manner of graceful combinations.  The ottomans were embroidered with flowers.  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!  Natural flowers, artificial flowers, painted flowers, embroidered flowers, and human flowers excelling them all,”—­glancing at the young ladies as he spoke.

Mr. Royal sighed, and in an absent sort of way answered, “Yes, yes.”  Then, starting up, he said abruptly, “Excuse me a moment; I wish to give the servants some directions.”

Floracita, who was cutting leaves from the geranium, observed his quick movement, and, as he left the room, she turned toward their visitor and said, in a childlike, confidential sort of way:  “Our dear Mamita used to call this room the Temple of Flora.  She had a great passion for flowers.  She chose the paper, she made the garlands for the curtains, she embroidered the ottomans, and painted that table so prettily.  Papasito likes to have things remain as she arranged them, but sometimes they make him sad; for the angels took Mamita away from us two years ago.”

“Even the names she gave you are flowery,” said Alfred, with an expression of mingled sympathy and admiration.

“Yes; and we had a great many flowery pet-names beside,” replied she.  “My name is Flora, but when she was very loving with me she called me her Floracita, her little flower; and Papasito always calls me so now.  Sometimes Mamita called me Pensee Vivace.”

“In English we call that bright little flower Jump-up-and-kiss-me,” rejoined Alfred, smiling as he looked down upon the lively little fairy.

She returned the smile with an arch glance, that seemed to say, “I sha’n’t do it, though.”  And away she skipped to meet her father, whose returning steps were heard.

“You see I spoil her,” said he, as she led him into the room with a half-dancing step.  “But how can I help it?”

Before there was time to respond to this question, the negress with the bright turban announced that tea was ready.

“Yes, Tulipa? we will come,” said Floracita.

“Is she a flower too?” asked Alfred.

“Yes, she’s a flower, too,” answered Floracita, with a merry little laugh.  “We named her so because she always wears a red and yellow turban; but we call her Tulee, for short.”

While they were partaking of refreshments, she and her father were perpetually exchanging badinage, which, childish as it was, served to enliven the repast.  But when she began to throw oranges for him to catch, a reproving glance from her dignified sister reminded her of the presence of company.