e was more of the vivacity and
playfulness of the young girl; now, more of the deep fervour and the
composed serenity of the thoughtful woman. This change was too
consonant to my taste--too flattering to my self-love--not to be
rejoiced in; and as I pressed her yielding form in silent rapture to my
own, I more than ever felt she was indeed the being for whom my glowing
heart had so long yearned. After the first full and unreserved
interchange of our souls' best feelings, our conversation turned upon
lighter topics; and I took an opportunity to produce the fruit of my
application since we had parted. Never shall I forget the surprise and
delight that animated her beautiful countenance when first she gazed
upon the miniature. The likeness was perfect, even to the minutest
shading of her costume; and so forcibly and even childishly did this
strike her, that it was with difficulty I could persuade her she was
not gazing on some peculiar description of mirror that reflected back
her living image. She expressed a strong desire to retain it; and to
this I readily assented: stipulating only to retain it until my next
visit, in order that I might take an exact copy for myself. With a look
of the fondest love, accompanied by a pressure on mine of lips that
distilled dewy fragrance where they rested, she thanked me for a gift
which she said would remind her, in absence, of the fidelity with which
her features had been engraven on my heart. She admitted, moreover,
with a sweet blush, that she herself had not been idle. Although her
pencil could not call up my image in the same manner, her pen had
better repaid her exertions; and, in return for the portrait, she would
give me a letter she had written to beguile her loneliness on the
preceding day. As she spoke she drew a sealed packet from the bosom of
her dress, and placing it in my hand, desired me not to read it until I
had returned to my home. But there was an expression of sweet confusion
in her lovely countenance, and a trepidation in her manner, that, half
disclosing the truth, rendered me utterly impatient of the delay
imposed; and eagerly breaking the seal, I devoured rather than read its
contents.

"Accursed madness of recollection!" pursued Wacousta, again striking
his brow violently with his hand,--"why is it that I ever feel thus
unmanned while recurring to those letters? Oh! Clara de Haldimar, never
did woman pen to man such declarations of tenderness and attachment as