I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me courage at once. "Keep to mon sense，St. John: you are verging on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked: for，with your superior mind，you cannot be either so dull or so conceited as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again，I will be your curate，if you like，but never your wife."

Again he turned lividly pale; but，as before，controlled his passion perfectly. He answered emphatically but calmly-

"A female curate，who is not my wife，would never suit me. With me，then，it seems，you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer，I will，while in town，speak to a married missionary，whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society"s aid; and thus you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your promise and deserting the band you engaged to join."

Now I never had，as the reader knows，either given any formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard and much too despotic for the occasion. I replied-

"There is no dishonour，no breach of promise，no desertion in the case. I am not under the slightest obligation to go to India，especially with strangers. With you I would have ventured much，because I admire，confide in，and，as a sister，I love you; but I am convinced that，go when and with whom I would，I should not live long in that climate."

"Ah! you are afraid of yourself," he said，curling his lip.