It surely was a solitary life for an ardent young creature like Anna Temple to dwell thus apart from the world, shut out from every association of her earlier and happier years; still she was never for a moment discontented with her lot. A nest of young birds she fed and tamed, and every wild-flower of rare beauty was transplanted in her garden-plot—so her loving heart had food for its impassioned yearnings. One human creature, too, had found a place in her affections even here in the wilderness. The summer after their arrival, a party of Indians from a neighboring tribe had sought, as was their custom, the shores of this sunny lake to fish. Among them came the chief, with his only daughter, nearly the same age as Anna. Weetano was a most superb creature; graceful as a fawn, with eyes clear and dark as a gazelle’s, and she burst upon them like a glorious vision—so unlike any thing they had seen, or even fancied. Her father, the old chief, seemed not at first well pleased to find his summer retreat invaded by a pale face, but Lord Temple’s courteous address soon won his favor, and he came with confidence to the cottage, where he was entertained with so many presents and novelties, that he went and brought his daughter to see the “white squaw,” as he called Anna, and hear her sing. Anna took her guitar and sang with it to the infinite delight of her visitors, who asked her if the creature were alive, for they had learned a little English from the fur-traders. She then displayed to the Indian maiden her treasures, and presented her with a beautiful coral necklace, that had pleased her fancy better than any thing else. The chief looked highly gratified to see Anna clasp the trinket round his daughter’s neck, and he inquired with some pride—“Will the Pale-Lily sail in the canoe with Red-Bird?” for thus he called his daughter. Anna was delighted with the novelty of the proposition, and hastened to accompany her new companion to the lake-side, leaving the old chief with her father at the cottage. She had never before seen a canoe like Weetano’s, it was befitting a chief’s daughter, or a princess royal, with its snowy mat of swan’s-down, and decorated with the quills of the porcupine and feathers of every hue. The Indian girl seized the paddles, and jumping into the fairy-looking bark motioned Anna to a seat on the mat opposite, but with all the romance and enthusiasm of her nature, she hesitated; for the thing seemed all too frail for the burden of a human weight on the dark waters. “Does the white girl fear?” inquired Weetano, in most musical accents. “Look how Red-Bird can guide a canoe.”