Of course，she knew her power: indeed，he did not，because he could not，conceal it from her. In spite of his Christian stoicism，when she went up and addressed him，and smiled gaily，encouragingly，even fondly in his face，his hand would tremble and his eye burn. He seemed to say，with his sad and resolute look，if he did not say it with his lips，"I love you，and I know you prefer me. It is not despair of success that keeps me dumb. If I offered my heart，I believe you would accept it. But that heart is already laid on a sacred altar: the fire is arranged round it. It will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed."

And then she would pout like a disappointed child; a pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity; she would withdraw her hand hastily from his，and turn in transient petulance from his aspect，at once so heroic and so martyr-like. St. John，no doubt，would have given the world to follow，recall，retain her，when she thus left him; but he would not give one chance of heaven，nor relinquish，for the elysium of her love，one hope of the true，eternal paradise.