He now turned quite from the moon, and faced me.
"When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you? What! do you not go to India?"
"You said I could not, unless I married you."
"And you will not marry me? You adhere to that resolution?"
Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror these cold people can put into the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure?
"No, St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution."
The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward; but it did not yet crash down.
"Once more, why this refusal?" he asked.
"Formerly," I answered, "because you did not love me; now, I reply, because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me. You are killing me now."
His lips and cheeks turned white—quite white.
"I should kill—I am killing you? Your words are such as ought not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they merit se-
