The bride of Middleton was seated on a simple couch of sweet-scented herbs covered with skins.
She had already suffered so much, and witnessed so many wild and unlooked-for events, within the short space of her captivity, that every additional misfortune fell with a diminished force on her seemingly devoted head.

Her cheeks were bloodless, her dark and usually animated eye was contracted in an expression of settled concern, and her form appeared shrinking and sensitive, nearly to extinction.

But in the midst of these evidences of natural weakness, there were at times such an air of pious resignation, such gleams of meek but holy hope lighting her countenance, as might well have rendered it a question whether the hapless captive was most a subject of pity, or of admiration.

All the precepts of father Ignatius were riveted in her faithful memory, and not a few of his pious visions were floating before her imagination.
Sustained by so sacred resolutions, the mild, the patient and the confiding girl was bowing her head to this new stroke of Providence, with the same sort of meekness as she would have submitted to any other prescribed penitence for her sins, though nature, at moments, warred powerfully, with so compelled a humility.
On the other hand, Ellen had exhibited far more of the woman, and consequently of the passions of the world.

She had wept until her eyes were swollen and red.