"Oh, St. John!" I cried, "have some mercy!"

     I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed his duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He continued--

     "God and nature intended you for a missionary's wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary's wife you must--shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you--not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign's service."

     "I am not fit for it: I have no vocation," I said.

     He had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritated by them. Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him, folded his arms on his chest, and fixed his countenance, I saw he was prepared for a long and trying opposition, and had taken in a stock of patience to last him to its close--resolved, however, that that close should be conquest for him.