ars, may drag along with weary feet, while we are
wasting our youth in hopeless sighs over the tyranny of a heartless
villain, lingering in this dreary land, where a smile is a vanity and
a light heart a crime."

"Does it pain thee so much," inquired Eveline, half reproachfully, "to
remain in the wilderness?"

"Nay, lovely one, where thou art is no wilderness, but a paradise.
Hither I came, attracted by the love that binds my soul to thine, and
this land will I never leave alone. A cabin with thee in these wilds
were better than a palace ungraced by thy presence."

"I thank thee, Miles, and thy words strengthen my courage. So long as
thou feelest thus, I cannot be unhappy. But shouldst thou ever change;
shouldst thou weary of the delays and vexations which thy love for
Eveline Dunning doth impose, hesitate not to avow it, and thou shalt
be free, though my heart break in bidding thee farewell."

"Eveline, dearest Eveline," cried her lover, catching her to his
bosom, "how canst thou speak thus? He who hath found heaven will never
voluntarily resign it."

But why pursue a discourse which can have but little interest except
for the speakers? The reader will suppose the further conversation
which would naturally take place between two young persons in their
situation. Owing to the vigilance of Spikeman, it was a long time (so
at least it seemed to them) since they had met, and the interview was
sweeter for that reason. While the precious moments are flitting by
them unheeded, let us return to Waqua.

The Indian was so absorbed in the contemplation of the portrait, that
he paid no attention to the jesting observation made by Arundel as he
left the room, but continued motionless, gazing fixedly upon it. It
represented a man of middle age, of a stern and somewhat forbidding
countenance, standing with the open palm of the right hand thrown
forward, as if he were addressing the spectator. It was exceedingly
well done,--so graceful was the attitude, so boldly stood out the
figure, so admirable was the coloring, so illusive the air of life. It
was the first portrait that Waqua had seen, and he very naturally
mistook it for a living person.

Seeing, as he supposed, a man with eyes fastened on him, standing in
an attitude soliciting attention, and as if only waiting until the
conversation between those who entered should cease, to address him,
Waqua, with instinctive politeness, had stopped, and looking full at
the painting,