in which men become the
slaves of some metaphysical word--_personality_, or _intelligence_, or
what not! What meaning can they have as applied to God? Herbert Spencer
is quite right. We no sooner attempt to define what we mean by a
Personal God than we lose ourselves in labyrinths of language and logic.
But why attempt it at all? I like that French saying, "_Quand on me
demande ce que c'est que Dieu, je l'ignore; quand on ne me le demande
pas, je le sais tres-bien!_" No, we cannot, realize Him in words--we can
only live in Him, and die to Him!'

On another occasion, he said, speaking to Catherine of the Squire and of
Meyrick's account of his last year of life,--

'How selfish one is, _always_--when one least thinks it! How could
I have forgotten him so completely as I did during all that New
Brotherhood time? Where, what is he now? Ah! if somewhere, somehow, one
could----'

He did not finish the sentence, but the painful yearning of his look
finished it for him.

But the days passed on, and the voice grew rarer, the strength feebler.
By the beginning of March all coming downstairs was over. He was
entirely confined to his room, almost to his bed. Then there came a
horrible week, when no narcotics took effect, when every night was a
wrestle for life, which it seemed must be the last. They had a good
nurse, but Flaxman and Catherine mostly shared the watching between
them.

One morning he had just dropped into a fevered sleep. Catherine was
sitting by the window gazing out into a dawn world of sun which reminded
her of the summer sunrises at Petites Dalles. She looked the shadow of
herself. Spiritually, too, she was the shadow of herself. Her life was
no longer her own: she lived in him--in every look of those eyes--in
every movement of that wasted frame.

As she sat there, her Bible on her knee, her strained unseeing gaze
resting on the garden and the sea, a sort of hallucination took
possession of her. It seemed to her that she saw the form of the Son of
Man passing over the misty slope in front of her, that the dim majestic
figure turned and beckoned. In her half-dream she fell on her knees.
'Master!' she cried in agony, 'I cannot leave him! Call me not! My life
is here. I have no heart--it beats in his.'

And the figure passed on, the beckoning hand dropping at its side. She
followed it with a sort of anguish, but it seemed to her as though
mind and body were alike incapable of moving--that she would not if s