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　those　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　you—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　severe　reproof：　they　would　seem　inexcusable；　but　that　it　is　the　duty　of　man　to　forgive　his　fellow　even　until　seventy…and…seven　times。”

I　had　finished　the　business　now。　While　earnestly　wishing　to　erase　from　his　mind　the　trace　of　my　former　offence；　I　had　stamped　on　that　tenacious　surface　another　and　far　deeper　impression；　I　had　burnt　it　in。

“Now　you　will　indeed　hate　me；”　I　said。　“It　is　useless　to　attempt　to　conciliate　you：　I　see　I　have　made　an　eternal　enemy　of　you。”

A　fresh　wrong　did　these　words　infli