I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me only to the fact that we did not love each other as man and wife should:  and therefore it inferred we ought not to marry.  I said so.  “St. John,” I returned, “I regard you as a brother —­ you, me as a sister:  so let us continue.”

“We cannot —­ we cannot,” he answered, with short, sharp determination:  “it would not do.  You have said you will go with me to India:  remember —­ you have said that.”

“Conditionally.”

“Well —­ well.  To the main point —­ the departure with me from England, the co-operation with me in my future labours —­ you do not object.  You have already as good as put your hand to the plough:  you are too consistent to withdraw it.  You have but one end to keep in view —­ how the work you have undertaken can best be done.  Simplify your complicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one purpose:  that of fulfilling with effect —­ with power —­ the mission of your great Master.  To do so, you must have a coadjutor:  not a brother —­ that is a loose tie —­ but a husband.  I, too, do not want a sister:  a sister might any day be taken from me.  I want a wife:  the sole helpmeet I can influence efficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death.”

I shuddered as he spoke:  I felt his influence in my marrow —­ his hold on my limbs.

“Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John:  seek one fitted to you.”

“One fitted to my purpose, you mean —­ fitted to my vocation.  Again I tell you it is not the insignificant private individual —­ the mere man, with the man’s selfish senses —­ I wish to mate:  it is the missionary.”

“And I will give the missionary my energies —­ it is all he wants —­ but not myself:  that would be only adding the husk and shell to the kernel.  For them he has no use:  I retain them.”

“You cannot —­ you ought not.  Do you think God will be satisfied with half an oblation?  Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice?  It is the cause of God I advocate:  it is under His standard I enlist you.  I cannot accept on His behalf a divided allegiance:  it must be entire.”

“Oh!  I will give my heart to God,” I said.  “You do not want it.”

I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it.  I had silently feared St. John till now, because I had not understood him.  He had held me in awe, because he had held me in doubt.  How much of him was saint, how much mortal, I could not heretofore tell:  but revelations were being made in this conference:  the analysis of his nature was proceeding before my eyes.  I saw his fallibilities:  I comprehended them.  I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, caring as I. The veil fell from his hardness and despotism.  Having felt in him the presence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection and took courage.  I was with an equal —­ one with whom I might argue —­ one whom, if I saw good, I might resist.