St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the house till everything was arranged: and，indeed，the bare idea of the motion，at once sordid and trivial，going on within its walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in the kitchen，watching the progress of certain cakes for tea，then baking. Approaching the hearth，he asked，"If I was at last satisfied with housemaid"s work?" I answered by inviting him to acpany me on a general inspection of the result of my labours. With some difficulty，I got him to make the tour of the house. He just looked in at the doors I opened; and when he had wandered upstairs and downstairs，he said I must have gone through a great deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerable changes in so short a time: but not a syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in the improved aspect of his abode.

This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had disturbed some old associations he valued. I inquired whether this was the case: no doubt in a somewhat crestfallen tone.

"Not at all; he had，on the contrary，remarked that I had scrupulously respected every association: he feared，indeed，I must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth. How many minutes，for instance，had I devoted to studying the arrangement of this very room?- By the bye，could I tell him where such a book was?"

I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down，and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess，he began to read it.

Now，I did not like this，reader. St. John was a good man; but I began to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard and cold. The humanities and amenities of life had no attraction for him- its peaceful enjoyments no charm. Literally，he lived only to aspire- after what was good and great，certainly; but still he would never rest，nor approve of others resting round him. As I looked at his lofty forehead，still and pale as a white stone- at his fine lineaments fixed in study- I prehended all at once that he would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a trying thing to be his wife. I understood，as by inspiration，the nature of his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but a love of the senses. I prehended how he should despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should mistrust its ever conducing permanently to his happiness or hers. I saw he was of the material from which nature hews her heroes- Christian and pagan- her lawgivers，her statesmen，her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but，at the fireside，too often a cold cumbrous column，gloomy and out of place.