do so without seeing your look of surprise and contrasting it with that of Philemon’s.  Yours had judgment in it, while Philemon’s held only indulgence.  Yet I liked yours best, or should have liked it best if it were not for the insufferable pride which is a part of my being.  Temper such as mine ought to surprise you, yet would I be Agatha Gilchrist without it?  I very much fear not.  And not being Agatha Gilchrist, should I have your love?  Again I fear not.  James, forgive me.  When I am happier, when I know my own heart, I will have less provocation.  Then, if that heart turns your way, you will find a great and bountiful serenity where now there are lowering and thunderous tempests.  Philemon said last night that he would be content to have my fierce word o’ mornings, if only I would give him one drop out of the honey of my better nature when the sun went down and twilight brought reflection and love.  But I did not like him any the better for saying this.  You would not halve the day so.  The cup with which you would refresh yourself must hold no bitterness.  Will it not have to be proffered, then, by other hands than those of

Agatha Gilchrist?

Mr. Philemon Webb.

Respected Sir: 

You are persistent.  I am willing to tell you, though I shall never confide so much to another, that it will take a stronger nature than yours, and one that loves me less, to hold me faithful and make me the happy, devoted wife which I must be if I would not be a demon.  I cannot, I dare not, marry where I am not held in a passionate, self-forgetful subjection.  I am too proud, too sensitive, too little mistress of myself when angry or aroused.  If, like some strong women, I loved what was weaker than myself, and could be controlled by goodness and unlimited kindness, I might venture to risk living at the side of the most indulgent and upright man I know.  But I am not of that kind.  Strength only can command my admiration or subdue my pride.  I must fear where I love, and own for husband him who has first shown himself my master.

So do not fret any more for me, for you, less than any man I know, will ever claim my obedience or command my love.  Not that I will not yield my heart to you, but that I cannot; and, knowing that I cannot, feel it honest to say so before any more of your fine, young manhood is wasted.  Go your ways, then, Philemon, and leave me to the rougher paths my feet were made to tread.  I like you now and feel something like a tender regard for your goodness, but if you persist in a courtship which only my father is inclined to smile upon, you will call up an antagonism that can lead to nothing but evil, for the serpent that lies coiled in my breast has deadly fangs, and is to be feared, as you should know who have more than once seen me angry.

Do not blame John or James Zabel, or Frederick Snow, or even Samuel Barton for this.  It would be the same if none of these men existed.  I was not made to triumph over a kindly nature, but to yield the haughtiest heart in all this county to the gentle but firm control of its natural master.  Do you want to know who that master is?  I cannot tell you, for I have not yet named him to myself.