It ime all tled: ton scaking care t ting s be barren on my side. Good fortune opens t o give someo afford a vent to tion of tions. I   many of my rustic sced, t consciousness ed tion plainly and strongly. Deep ification to find I icated s: I promised t never a  I did not visit teacheir school.

    Mr. Rivers came up as, y girls, file out before me, and locked tood  sc, respectable, modest, and isry. And t is saying a great deal; for after all, tisry are t taug mannered, most self- respecting of any in Europe: since t of to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted, compared on girls.

    “Do you consider you  your reion?” asked Mr. Rivers, ion give pleasure?”

    “Doubtless.”

    “And you oiled a fe a life devoted to task of regenerating your race be ?”

    “Yes,” I said; “but I could not go on for ever so: I  to enjoy my oies as o cultivate t enjoy t recall eito t of it and disposed for full holiday.”

    no are you going to do?”

    “to be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to set  liberty, and get somebody else to  on you.”

    “Do you  her?”

    “Yes, to go o Moor   to  their arrival.”

    “I understand. I t you  is better so: h you.”

    “tell o be ready by to-morrotage in the morning.”

    ook it. “You give it up very gleefully,” said  quite understand your ligedness, because I cannot tell  you propose to yourself as a substitute for t aim, ion in life have you now?”

    “My first aim o clean do to rub it up e number of clotill it glitters again; my to arrange every cable, bed, carpet, ical precision; after to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, t on ed ed by o sucing of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Cmas cakes, cerials for mince-pies, and solemnising of otes, as  an inadequate notion of to tiated like you. My purpose, in s, is to ely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next tion is to give they come.”

    St. Joly: still isfied.

    “It is all very ,” said  seriously, I trust t tle ic endearments and household joys.”

    “t terrupted.

    “No, Jane, no: t tion; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful.”

    “I mean, on trary, to be busy.”

    “Jane, I excuse you for t: t of your neion, and for pleasing yourself e-found cions to look beyond Moor on, and sisterly society, and t of civilised affluence. I rouble you rength.”

    I looked at . Jo o talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! to w end?”

    “to turning to profit talents o your keeping; and of  account. Jane, I sc. And try to restrain tionate fervour o commonplace  cling so tenaciously to ties of tancy and ardour for an adequate cause; forbear to e trite transient objects. Do you hear, Jane?”

    “Yes; just as if you o be happy, and I will be happy. Goodbye!”

    Moor o see  tle of a urned topsy-turvy—, and clean, and cook. And really, after a day or t aken a journey to S- to purcure: my cousins e blanco effect erations I pleased, and a sum  aside for t purpose. tting-room and bedrooms I left mucables, and cacle of test innovations. Still some novelty o give to turn t to be invested. Dark s and curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze, neoilet tables, ans being glaring. A spare parlour and bedroom I refurnisirely, ery: I laid canvas on ts on tairs.  Moor e a model of brig snugness   try e and desert dreariness .

    tful t lengted about dark, and ere dusk fires  upstairs and beloc trim; hannah and I were dressed, and all was in readiness.

    St. Jo. I reated o keep quite clear of till everytion, at once sordid and trivial, going on s o scare o estrangement. ccain cakes for tea, t last satisfied ing o accompany me on a general inspection of t of my labours. ity, I got o make tour of t looked in at tairs and doairs,   deal of fatigue and trouble to ed suc a time: but not a syllable did ter indicating pleasure in t of his abode.

    t pererations urbed some old associations  in a some-fallen tone.

    “Not at all; rary, remarked t I ed every association:  o on tter t es, for instance, ed to studying t of tell him where such a book was?”

    I sook it doo omed .

    No like t. Jo I began to feel ruties and amenities of life traction for s peaceful enjoyments no cerally, o aspire—after , certainly; but still , nor approve of oting round  y foreill and pale as a one— at s fixed in study—I compre once t  it rying to be ood, as by inspiration, ture of  it  a love of t exercised over o stifle and destroy it; rust its ever conducting permanently to erial from esmen, eadfast bul interests to rest upon; but, at too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.

    “t ed: “t s ter. ell may ic life; it is not : ties stagnate—t develop or appear to advantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger—ude tasked—t age of  to c now.”

    “t t old Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran. It  a rumbling of . topped at t; t one epped out. In a minute I s, in contact first  cted Carlo, ive, ened into the house.

    tiff ing drive from cross, and cy nig t countenances expanded to t.  in t. Jo t  once.  kiss, said in a loone a feood a alked to, and timating t o a place of refuge.

    I  to go upstairs, but Diana  to give able orders respecting ted ion and decorations of ts, and ricinted cification ungrudgingly. I  my arrangements met tly, and t urn home.

    S  evening. My cousins, full of exion,  in narrative and comment, t t. Joaciturnity: o see ers; but in t sympat of t is, turn of Diana and Mary—pleased  ts of t event, tumult, tion irked ’s enjoyment, about an er tea, a rap ered imation t “a poor lad  t unlikely time, to fetco see her, who was drawing away.”

    “here does she live, hannah?”

    “Clear up at cross Bro four miles off, and moor and moss all the way.”

    “tell him I will go.”

    “I’m sure, sir, you ter not. It’s t road to travel after dark t can be: track at all over t is sucter nig . You ter send  you he morning.”

    But ting on  one objection, one murmur, ed. It  return till midnigarved and tired enoug  out.  of duty; made an exertion; felt rengto do and deny, and ter terms h himself.

    I am afraid tried ience. It ook to no settled employment, but spent it in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. ty, acted on Diana and Mary’s spirits like some life-giving elixir: till noon, and from noon till nigalk; and tty, pit I preferred listening to, and s, to doing anyt. Jo rebuke our vivacity; but : ion scattered, and ing ts different districts.

    One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive for some minutes, asked  unchanged.”

    “Unco inform us t ure from England ively fixed for the ensuing year.

    “And Rosamond Oliver?” suggested Mary, to escape arily: for no sooner tered ture as if . Jo o read at meals—, and looked up,

    “Rosamond Oliver,” said  to be married to Mr. Granby, one of t connected and most estimable residents in S-, grandson and o Sir Frederic Granby: I elligence from erday.”

    ers looked at eac me;  him: he was serene as glass.

    “tc  up ily,” said Diana: “t her long.”

    “But t in October at ty ball at S-. But o a union, as in t case,  desirable, delays are unnecessary: to tted for tion.”

    t time I found St. Joer tion, I felt tempted to inquire if t distressed  tle to need sympat, so far from venturing to offer  tion of ice in talking to .  kept reating me like ers; inually made little c all tend to t of cordiality: in s, no I ance beto be far greater tress. ted to  frigidity.

    Suc not a little surprised wooping, and said—

    “You see, Jane, ttle is fougory won.”

    Startled at being t immediately reply: after a moment’s ation I answered—

    “But are you sure you are not in tion of triump too dear? ould not sucher ruin you?”

    “I t; and if I  does not muco contend for suc of t is decisive: my !” So saying, urned to his papers and his silence.

    As our mutual tled into a quieter cer, and udies, St. Joayed more at  imes for ogeto my a) undertaken, and I fagged a German, ic lore of  of some Eastern tongue, tion of o his plans.

    tting in  and absorbed enoug t blue eye of  of leaving tlandisimes fixing upon us, udents, ensity of observation: if caug antly  ever and anon, it returned searco our table. I  meant: I oo, at tual satisfaction o ex on an occasion t seemed to me of small moment, namely, my  to Morton scill more  to go,  of tude, and encourage me to accomplisask  regard to ts.

    “Jane is not sucain blast, or a sitution is botic;—better calculated to endure variations of climate t.”

    And imes a good deal tired, and not a little en, I never dared complain, because I sa to murmur o vex itude pleased he reverse was a special annoyance.

    One afternoon,  leave to stay at ers o Morton in my stead: I sat reading Scal scrolls. As I excranslation for an exercise, I o look c  tell: so keen , and yet so cold, I felt for t superstitious—as if I ting in thing uncanny.

    “Jane, w are you doing?”

    “Learning German.”

    “I  you to give up German and learn anee.”

    “You are not in earnest?”

    “In suc t I must  so: and I ell you why.”

    on to explain t anee  present studying; t, as  to forget t; t it  ly to  again and again go over ts, and so fix t ime bet t  at a task t of t, pero make t ed noo ure.

    St. Jo a man to be lig t every impression made on . I consented. urned, transferred from o  St. Joo sucep. ly—

    “I kno.”

    I found ient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting master: ed me to do a great deal; and ions, estified ion. By degrees, ain influence over me t took ay of mind: ice raining talk or laugiresomely importunate instinct reminded me t vivacity (at least in me) asteful to  only serious moods and occupations able, t in  to sustain or follo; “come,” I came; “do t. But I did not love my servitude: I o neglect me.

    One evening ime, ers and I stood round , om; and, as rolled by rong), exclaimed—

    “St. Joo call Jane your ter, but you don’t treat oo.”

    So uncomfortably confused; and o a level ioned my eyes piercingly—ical cousin’s salute belonged to one of t t kisses, and  kiss. o learn t; it  striking: I am sure I did not blus urned a little pale, for I felt as if to my fetters. ted tery and quiescence  it, seemed to invest it for ain charm.

    As for me, I daily o do so, I felt daily more and more t I must disoifle ies,  my tastes from t, force myself to tion of pursuits for ion. ed to train me to an elevation I could never reac racked me o aspire to tandard ed. to mould my irregular features to  and classic pattern, to give to my cint and solemn lustre of his own.

    Not  present. Of late it o look sad: a cankering evil sat at my  and drained my  its source—the evil of suspense.

    Perten Mr. Rocer, reader, amidst tune. Not for a moment. ill   a vapour sunsraced effigy storms could ablet, fated to last as long as t inscribed. to knoon, I re-entered my cottage every evening to t; and no Moor  my bedroom eac to brood over it.

    In t ter’s present residence and state of , as St. Joured, e ignorant of all concerning e to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on t. I ed ainty on tep ans sure it  an early ansonisnig reply; but er day t arrived and brougo t anxiety.

    I e again: t letter : it s, it faded, flickered: not a line, not a ancy, my , and t dark indeed.

    A fine spring s enjoy. Summer approacried to co accompany me to t. Jo  dissipation, I ed employment; my present life oo purposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by anee, and gre in requiring t: and I, like a fool, never t of resisting  resist him.

    One day I o my studies in los tly felt disappointment. old me in tter for me, and o take it, almost certain t tidings , I found only an unimportant note from Mr. Briggs on business. tter cears; and no poring over ters and flourisropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again.

    St. Joo o read; in attempting to do t in sobs. s of tising   tion, nor did ion me as to its cause; he only said—

    “e  a fees, Jane, till you are more composed.” And ient, leaning on ced and fully understood crisis in a patient’s malady. ifled my sobs, tered somet not being very  morning, I resumed my task, and succeeded in completing it. St. Jo away my books and his, locked his desk, and said—

    “Noh me.”

    “I will call Diana and Mary.”

    “No; I  only one companion t must be you. Put on your t by tcake to.”

    I knoagonistic to my oe submission and determined revolt. I o t of bursting, sometimes o t circumstances ed, nor my present mood inclined me to mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. Joions; and in ten minutes I reading track of th him.

    t: it came over t s of ainless blue; tream descending t spring rains, poured along plentiful and clear, catcints from t. As  track, rod a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely enamelled iny ar-like yelloime, s us quite in; for tos o their very core.

    “Let us rest . Jo stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond tle fartain surf and floed to t guarded tude, and a last refuge for silence.

    I took a seat: St. Joood near me. ream, and returned to traverse t: , let tir : o something.

    “And I s again,” e ream!”

    Strange range love! An austere patriot’s passion for  doo  interval past, he recommenced—

    “Jane, I go in six  Indiaman wh of June.”

    “God ect you; for you aken his work,” I answered.

    “Yes,” said  of an infallible Master. I am not going out under  to tive larol of my feeble felloain, is t. It seems strange to me t all round me do not burn to enlist under to join in terprise.”

    “All  your po o wiso marcrong.”

    “I do not speak to tent to accomplis.”

    “t to discover.”

    “You say truly; but ir to urge and ex to t—to s ts are, and  from God, a place in the ranks of his chosen.”

    “If task,  ts be t to inform t?”

    I felt as if an ao al  the spell.

    “And . John.

    “My  is mute,—my  is mute,” I ansruck and thrilled.

    “t speak for it,” continued tless voice. “Jane, come o India: come as my  and fellow- labourer.”

    t le,—I could not be receive his call.

    “O. John!” I cried, “have some mercy!”

    I appealed to one inued—

    “God and nature intended you for a missionary’s  is not personal, but mental endos t for love. A missionary’s —s for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service.”

    “I am not fit for it: I ion,” I said.

    ed on t objections:  irritated by t t, and fixed enance, I saion, and aken in a stock of patience to last o its close—resolved,  t close s for him.

    “y, Jane,” said ian virtues: you say rig you are not fit for t for it? Or ruly called, believed ance, am but dust and as. Paul, I ackno of sinners; but I do not suffer to daunt me. I kno  as  to perform a great task, ores of o trust like me. It is to lean on: do not doubt but it  of your human weakness.”

    “I do not understand a missionary life: I udied missionary labours.”

    “t: I can set you your task from o and by you alo moment. trong and apt as myself, and  require my help.”

    “But my po feel tirs in me  like a rayless dungeon, tered in its depto attempt  accomplish!”

    “I . I c met: I udy for ten mont time by sundry tests: and ually, uprigo your s and inclinations; I sa y and tact: you could  you e readiness  your o four s one to yourself, and relinquiso tract justice, I recognised a soul t revelled in tement of sacrifice. In tractability  my ed, and adopted anot interested me; in tiring assiduity —in temper  its difficulties—I ackno of ties I seek. Jane, you are docile, diligent, disinterested, faitant, and courageous; very gentle, and very o mistrust yourself—I can trust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian sc Indian ance o me invaluable.”

    My iron sracted round me; persuasion advanced ep. S my eyes as I  er of an o think, before I again hazarded a reply.

    “Very tle distance up till.

    “I can do o do: I am forced to see and ackno,” I meditated,—“t is, if life be spared me. But I feel mine is not tence to be long protracted under an Indian sun.  t care for t: o die, y and sanctity, to t empty land—Mr. Rocer is not t is,  ever be to me? My business is to live  o drag on from day to day, as if I ing some impossible cances, e me to . Jo seek anoterest in life to replace t: is not tion ruly t glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results, t calculated to fill t by uptorn affections and demolis say, Yes—and yet I s. Joo India, I go to premature deaterval bet, too, is very clear to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. Joill my sine central point and fart outions. If I do go  absolutely: I ar—, vitals, tire victim.   yet seen, resources ed. Yes, I can le grudging.

    “Consent, to  for one item—one dreadful item. It is—t o be  for me t fro of a rock, doo  can I let e ions—coolly put into practice  not  t e absent? Can I bear t every endearment orous. I . As er, I mig as ell him so.”

    I looked toill as a prostrate column; urned to me: carted to  and approached me.

    “I am ready to go to India, if I may go free.”

    “Your ansary,”  is not clear.”

    “You o been my adopted broted sister: let us continue as sucter not marry.”

    ed fraternity  do in ter it : I sake you, and seek no  as it is, eit be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose to any ot see it, Jane? Consider a moment—your strong sense will guide you.”

    I did consider; and still my sense, suc ed me only to t t  love eac inferred o marry. I said so. “St. Journed, “I regard you as a broter: so let us continue.”

    “e cannot—,” , sermination: “it  do. You o India: remember—you .”

    “Conditionally.”

    “ell—o t—ture ion ure labours—you do not object. You  your o too consistent to . You  one end to keep in vie be done. Simplify your complicated interests, feelings, ts,  of fulfilling —  Master. to do so, you must or: not a brot is a loose tie—but a oo, do not  a sister: a sister migaken from me. I  a  I can influence efficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death.”

    I s his influence in my marrow—his hold on my limbs.

    “Seek one elseed to you.”

    “One fitted to my purpose, you mean—fitted to my vocation. Again I tell you it is not t private individual—to mate: it is the missionary.”

    “And I  is all s—but not myself: t o tain them.”

    “You cannot—you oug. Do you tisfied ion? ill  a mutilated sacrifice? It is te: it is under andard I enlist you. I cannot accept on  must be entire.”

    “O to God,” I said. “You do not  it.”

    I  s t sometone in ence, and in t accompanied it. I ly feared St. Joill noood . , al, I could not ofore tell: but revelations ure , sitting t  at t of a man, caring as I. tism.  in ies, I felt ion and took courage. I  argue—one .

    after I tered t sentence, and I presently risked an up enance.

    on me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen inquiry. “Is sic, and sarcastic to me!” it seemed to say. “ does this signify?”

    “Do not let us forget t tter,” alk lig sin. I trust, Jane, you are in earnest o God: it is all I . Once  on your Maker, t of t Maker’s spiritual kingdom on eart and endeavour; you o do at once  end. You us o your efforts and mine by our pal union in marriage: t gives a cer of permanent conformity to tinies and designs of rivial difficulties and delicacies of feeling—all scruple about trengtenderness of mere personal inclination— you o enter into t union at once.”

    “S ures, beautiful in t strangely formidable in till severity; at  not open; at  and deep and searc never soft; at all imposing figure; and fancied myself in idea   capacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts  office; admire and emulate ion and vigour; accommodate quietly to erurbed at ion; discriminate tian from teem ten, no doubt, attaco y: my body ringent yoke, but my  and mind o turn to: my natural unenslaved feelings o communicate in moments of loneliness. to s groered y could never bligrample do as  rained, and alure continually loo compel it to burn inter a cry, tal after vital—this would be unendurable.

    “St. Jo so far in my meditation.

    “ell?” he answered icily.

    “I repeat I freely consent to go  not as your  marry you and become part of you.”

    “A part of me you must become,” eadily; “ot yet ty, take out o India a girl of nineteen, unless so me? ogetimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst savage tribes—and unwed?”

    “Very ances, quite as er, or a man and a clergyman like yourself.”

    “It is kno you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as suco attempt it o fasten injurious suspicions on us bot, t and—it  do.”

    “It ly  not y, fraternity, if you like; a neope’s respect and submission to : not fear.”

    “It is ,” o  is just . And tacles in t be  repent marrying me—be certain of t;  be married. I repeat it: tedly enougo render t even in your eyes.”

    “I scorn your idea of love,” I could not ood before  terfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. Jo.”

    me fixedly, compressing  lips   easy to tell: enance thoroughly.

    “I scarcely expected to  expression from you,” tered noto deserve scorn.”

    I oucle tone, and overawed by his high, calm mien.

    “Forgive me t. Jo it is your o t I o speak so unguardedly. You roduced a topic on  variance—a topic y .”

    “No,” said  is a long-c end: but I s present. to-morronigake t space of time to consider my offer: and do not forget t if you reject it, it is not me you deny, but God. to you a noble career; as my er upon it. Refuse to be my  yourself for ever to a track of selfisy. tremble lest in t case you shan infidels!”

    urning from me, he once more

    “Looked to river, looked to hill.”

    But time  in : I  o tered. As I oment of an austere and despotic nature, ance ed submission—tion of a cool, inflexible judgment, ed in anot o sympat, as a man, o coerce me into obedience: it ly y, and alloion and repentance.

    t niger ers,  proper to forget even to s left t by t t tears started to my eyes.

    “I see you and St. Jo go after ing you— up.”

    I  mucances: I er ood at t of tairs.

    “Good-nig. John,” said I.

    “Good-night, Jane,” he replied calmly.

    “then shake hands,” I added.

    a cold, loose touc  day; cordiality  ears move ion o be  still tian ient and placid; and  of cion; t o forgive, not having been offended.

    And  answer  me. I would mucher he had knocked me down.