and prayed in my way--a different way
to St. John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate
very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His
feet. I rose from the thanksgiving--took a resolve--and lay down,
unscared, enlightened--eager but for the daylight.

CHAPTER XXXVI

The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two
with arranging my things in my chamber, drawers, and wardrobe, in the
order wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence.
Meantime, I heard St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I
feared he would knock--no, but a slip of paper was passed under the door.
I took it up. It bore these words--

"You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but a little
longer, you would have laid your hand on the Christian's cross and the
angel's crown. I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day
fortnight. Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not into temptation:
the spirit, I trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall
pray for you hourly.--Yours, ST. JOHN."

"My spirit," I answered mentally, "is willing to do what is right; and my
flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when
once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be
strong enough to search--inquire--to grope an outlet from this cloud of
doubt, and find the open day of certainty."

It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain
beat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door open, and St. John pass
out. Looking through the window, I saw him traverse the garden. He took
the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross--there he
would meet the coach.

"In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin," thought
I: "I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and
ask after in England, before I depart for ever."

It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the interval in
walking softly about my room, and pondering the visitation which had
given my plans their present bent. I recalled that inward sensation I
had experienced: for I could recall it, with all its unspeakable
strangeness. I recalled the voice I had heard; again I questioned whence
it came, as vainly as before: it seemed in _me_--not in the external
world. I asked was it a mere nervous impression--a delusion? I could
not conceive or bel