Passing to the cabin of Ellen Juvarna, we see her in the same confusion which seems to have beset the plantation:  her dark, piercing eyes, display more of that melancholy which marks Clotilda’s; nor does thoughtfulness pervade her countenance, and yet there is the restlessness of an Indian about her,—­she is Indian by blood and birth; her look calls up all the sad associations of her forefathers; her black glossy hair, in heavy folds, hangs carelessly about her olive shoulders, contrasting strangely with the other.

“And you, Nicholas! remember what your father will say:  but you must not call him such,” she says, taking by the hand a child we have described, who is impatient to join the gay group.

“That ain’t no harm, mother!  Father always is fondling about me when nobody’s lookin’,” the child answers, with a pertness indicating a knowledge of his parentage rather in advance of his years.

We pass to the kitchen,—­a little, dingy cabin, presenting the most indescribable portion of the scene, the smoke issuing from every crevice.  Here old Peggy, the cook,—­an enveloped representative of smoke and grease,—­as if emerging from the regions of Vulcan, moves her fat sides with the independence of a sovereign.  In this miniature smoke-pit she sweats and frets, runs to the door every few minutes, adjusts the points of her flashy bandana, and takes a wistful look at the movements without.  Sal, Suke, Rose, and Beck, young members of Peggy’s family, are working at the top of their energy among stew-pans, griddles, pots and pails, baskets, bottles and jugs.  Wafs, fritters, donjohns and hominy flap-jacks, fine doused hams, savoury meats, ices, and fruit-cakes, are being prepared and packed up for the occasion.  Negro faces of every shade seem full of interest and freshness, newly brightened for the pleasures of the day.  Now and then broke upon our ear that plaintive melody with the words, “Down on the Old Plantation;” and again, “Jim crack corn, an’ I don’t care, for Mas’r’s gone away.”  Then came Aunt Rachel, always persisting in her right to be master of ceremonies, dressed in her Sunday bombazine, puffed and flounced, her gingham apron so clean, her head “did up” with the flashiest bandana in her wardrobe; it’s just the colour for her taste-real yellow, red, and blue, tied with that knot which is the height of plantation toilet:  there is as little restraint in her familiarity with the gentry of the mansion as there is in her control over the denizens of the kitchen.  Even Dandy and Enoch, dressed in their best black coats, white pantaloons, ruffled shirts, with collars endangering their ears, hair crisped with an extra nicety, stand aside at her bidding.  The height of her ambition is to direct the affairs of the mansion:  sometimes she extends it to the overseer.  The trait is amiably exercised:  she is the best nigger on the plantation, and Marston allows her to indulge her feelings, while his guests laugh at her native pomposity, so generously carried out in all her commands.  She is preparing an elegant breakfast, which “her friends” must partake of before starting.  Everything must be in her nicest:  she runs from the ante-room to the hall, and from thence to the yard, gathering plates and dishes; she hurries Old Peggy the cook, and again scolds the waiters.