Alice Rody had become careless of her freedom—nay, in a manner, preferred her captivity to the uncertainty of an unknown future, where no kindred awaited her return, no friend stood expectant to receive her.
A sense of security—almost contentment—had stolen into her heart.
Time had done much to assuage the terrible sorrow from which she had suffered.
It was a wonderful transformation to the once high-spirited girl who had shown such energy and fortitude in the midst of danger.
So thought the young chief, Wacora.
To Nelatu it was a negative happiness. She had not energy to chide his ardent devotion, but submitted to it passively, without bestowing the slightest encouragement.
One lovely afternoon Sansuta, conducted by Alice, strolled to the ruined fort.
Arrived there, Sansuta proceeded to embroider a pouch she had commenced to make.
Alice, seated on a fragment of stone, watched her companion’s trivial employment.
As the Indian girl nestled close to the pale-faced maiden, she seemed on the point of fainting.