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“You left me too suddenly last night。 Had you stayed but a little longer; you would have laid your hand on the Christian’s cross and the angel’s crown。 I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day fortnight。 Meantime; watch and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit; I trust; is willing; but the flesh; I see; is weak。 I shall pray for you hourly。—Yours; ST。 JOHN。”

“My spirit;” I answered mentally; “is willing to do what is right; and my flesh; I hope; is strong enough to acplish the will of Heaven; when once that will is distinctly known to me。 At any rate; it shall be strong enough to search—inquire—to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt; and find the open day of certainty。”

It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain beat fast on my casement。 I heard the front…door open; and St。 John pass out。 Looking through the window; I saw him traverse the garden。 He took the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross—there he would meet the coach。

“In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track; cousin;” thought I: “I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross。 I too have some to see and ask after in England; before I depart for ever。”

It wanted yet two hours of breakfast…time。 I filled the interval in walking softly about my room; and pondering the visitation which had given my plans their present bent。 I recalled that inward sensation I had experienced: for I could recall it; with all its unspeakable strangeness。 I recalled the voice I had heard; again I questioned whence it came; as vainly as before: it seemed in me—not in the external world。 I asked was it a mere nervous impression—a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: it was more like an inspiration。 The wondrous s

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