“And what does your heart say?” demanded St. John.

“My heart is mute⁠—my heart is mute,” I answered, struck and thrilled.

“Then I must speak for it,” continued the deep, relentless voice. “Jane, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and fellow-labourer.”

The glen and sky spun round: the hills heaved! It was as if I had heard a summons from Heaven⁠—as if a visionary messenger, like him of Macedonia, had enounced, “Come over and help us!” But I was no apostle⁠—I could not behold the herald⁠—I could not receive his call.

“Oh, St. John!” I cried, “have some mercy!”