ture is based upon them. Catherine Leyburn
knew of no supreme right but the right of God to the obedience of man.

Oh, and besides--besides--it is impossible that he should care so very
much. The time is so short--there is so little in her, comparatively, to
attract a man of such resource, such attainments, such access to the
best things of life.

She cannot--in a kind of terror--she _will_ not, believe in her own
love-worthiness, in her own power to deal a lasting wound.

Then her _own_ claim? Has she any claim, has the poor bounding heart
that she cannot silence, do what she will, through all this strenuous
debate, no claim to satisfaction, to joy?

She locks her hands round her knees, conscious, poor soul, that the
worst struggle is _here_, the quickest agony _here_. But she does not
waver for an instant. And her weapons are all ready. The inmost soul of
her is a fortress well stored, whence at any moment the mere personal
craving of the natural man can be met, repulsed, slain.

'_Man approacheth so much the nearer unto God the farther he departeth
from all earthly comfort._'

'_If thou couldst perfectly annihilate thyself and empty thyself of all
created love, then should I be constrained to flow into thee with
greater abundance of grace._'

'_When thou lookest unto the creature the sight of the Creator is
withdrawn from thee._'

'_Learn in all things to overcome thyself for the love of thy
Creator...._'

She presses the sentence she has so often meditated in her long solitary
walks about the mountains into her heart. And one fragment of George
Herbert especially rings in her ears, solemnly, funereally--

'Thy Saviour sentenced joy!'

Ay, sentenced it for ever--the personal craving, the selfish need, that
must be filled at any cost. In the silence of the descending night
Catherine quietly, with tears, carried out that sentence, and slew her
young new-born joy at the feet of the Master.

She stayed where she was for a while after this crisis in a kind of
bewilderment and stupor, but maintaining a perfect outward tranquillity.
Then there was a curious little epilogue.

'It is all over,' she said to herself tenderly. 'But he has taught me so
much--he has been so good to me--he is so good! Let me take to my heart
some counsel--some word of his, and obey it sacredly--silently--for
these days' sake.'

Then she fell thinking again, and she remembered their talk about Rose.
How often she had pondered i