ter　part　which　shall　not　be　taken　from　you！”

He　laid　his　hand　on　my　head　as　he　uttered　the　last　words。　He　had　spoken　earnestly；　mildly：　his　look　was　not；　indeed；　that　of　a　lover　beholding　his　mistress；　but　it　was　that　of　a　pastor　recalling　his　wandering　sheep—or　better；　of　a　guardian　angel　watching　the　soul　for　which　he　is　responsible。　All　men　of　talent；　whether　they　be　men　of　feeling　or　not；　whether　they　be　zealots；　or　aspirants；　or　despots—provided　only　they　be　sincere—have　their　sublime　moments；　when　they　subdue　and　rule。　I　felt　veneration　for　St。　John—　veneration　so　strong　that　its　impetus　thrust　me　at　once　to　the　point　I　had　so　long　shunned。　I　was　tempted　to　cease　struggling　with　him—　to　rush　down　the　torrent　of　his　will　into　the　gulf　of　his　existence；　and　there　lose　my　own。　I　was　almost　as　hard　beset　by　him　now　as　I　had　been　once　before；　in　a　different　way；　by　another。　I　was　a　fool　both　times。　To　have　yielded　then　would　have　been　an　error　of　principle；　to　have　yielded　now　would　have　been　an　error　of　judgment。　So　I　think　at　this　hour；　when　I　look　back　to　the　crisis　through　the　quiet　medium　of　time：　I　was　unconscious　of　folly　at　the　instant。

I　stood　motionless　under　my　hierophant’s　touch。　My　refusals　were　forgotten—my　fears　overe—my　wrestlings　paralysed。　The　Impossible—i。e。；　my　marriage　with　St。　John—was　fast　being　the　Possible。　All　was　changing　utterly　with　a　sudden　sweep。　Religion　called—Angels　beckoned—God　manded—life　rolled　together　like　a　scroll—death’s　gates　opening；　showed　eternity　beyond：　it　seemed；　that　for　safety　and　bliss　there；　all　here　might　be　sacrificed　in　a　second。　The　dim　room　was　full　of　visions。

“Could　you　decide　now？”　asked　the　missionary。　The　inquiry　was　put　in　gentle　tones：　he　drew　me　to　him　as　gently。　Oh；　that　gentleness！