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: bu