“A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face; It fled, and deeper paleness took its place; Then a cold shudder thrilled her—and, at last, Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast.” DRAKE. A year and more had now passed, since the disaster on the Ohio, and the captive maiden had already gone through more adventures than fall to the lot of most heroines, or than even it is my intention to describe. And, with the lapse of time, came changes,—changes that we must all feel.—The girlish form which we last beheld indicated that time had added to it strength, and filled out its beautiful proportions, and the maiden was now as pretty as woman can be. Grief had left its traces, but even they were beautiful. Reader, hast thou ever, in summer, watched a coming storm? Hast thou seen a cloud overcast the heavens, spreading abroad darkness and gloom?—The storm bursts,—the big drops come dancing to the earth, and the sky is cleared! How brightly then shines the sun! how the rain drops glitter in its beams! Beautiful as the rain drops are the traces of grief. Tears are to grief, what rain is to the parched earth. Oh! how beautiful are the remains of affection! Such were now the traces which time had left on the captive maiden. There are the cold and heartless, who, in the language of the world, would merely have said that she had broken,—how I hate the word in that sense,—and who would have thought her less beautiful than in girlhood she promised to be. With the world, it may be that she was. But to many, she would have been far dearer than in happier days; though less brilliant, there was something more touching in her melancholy,—something better calculated to sink deep into the heart, and call into play the finer feelings of our nature. The recollection of her family was now like a distant view, shadowy and undefined, and she rarely recurred to the sad evening of her misfortunes; but if she did, and would but for an instant dwell thereon, it was like applying the telescope to distant objects. The scene arose before her in all its startling horror, and she gave vent to her grief in a gush of tears. But these scenes, as I have stated above, now occurred but rarely:—time had added its soothing power, and the captive now in her musings, began to turn her thoughts to still earlier days. The heart is more susceptible in misfortune, and loves then also to brood over moments which once were happy; probably because there is relief in indulging in anticipations or recollections which drive away heavier thoughts. So that now there were moments when she pondered over her heart's earliest joys, and dwelt with delight on the recollection of him who first, by his kind and gentle manner, won her affections, taught her to extract music from the gushing of fountains, and pleasure from the inspection of a flower, or the sight of a landscape.