f：　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　conducting　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。

“This　parlour　is　not　his　sphere；”　I　reflected：　“the　Himalayan　ridge　or　Caffre　bush；　even　the　plague…cursed　Guinea　Coast　swamp　would　suit　him　better。　Well　may　he　eschew　the　ca