Rosa, the yellow girl, was sauntering up and down the avenue of tulip trees which formed an approach of a quarter of a mile to the plantation of Beauregard, in a very discontented and sullen humour. She was holding Maraquita’s baby in her arms, and she was dressed in her very best. Her cotton gown was of the deepest rose colour; on her feet she wore white stockings and prunella shoes with sandals; her long black curls--in which she prided herself there was no trace of negro crispness--were surmounted by a handkerchief of bright orange silk, which Miss Lizzie had given her as a reward for her kindness to her little charge. But what was the good of it all? thought Rosa; what was the use of wea…
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