proper to forget even to shake hands with me; but left the
room in silence. I—who, though I had no love, had much
friendship for him—was hurt by the marked omission:
so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.

"I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,"
said Diana, "during your walk on the moor. But go after
him; he is now lingering in the passage, expecting you—
he will make it up."

I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would
always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him—
he stood at the foot of the stairs.

"Good-night, St. John," said I.

"Good-night, Jane," he replied calmly.

"Then shake hands," I added.

What a cold, loose touch he impressed on my fingers!
He was deeply displeased by what had occurred that day:
cordiality would not warm, nor tears move him. No happy
reconciliation was to be had with him—no cheering smile
or generous word: but still the Christian was patient and
placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered
that he was not in the habit of cherishing the remembrance
of vexation; that he had nothing to forgive; not having
been offended.

And with that answer he left me. I would much rather
he had knocked me down.

He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had
said he would. He deferred his departure a whole week; and
during that time he made me feel what severe punishment,
a good, yet stern, a conscientious, yet implacable man can
inflict on one who has offended him. Without one overt act
of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrived to impress
me momently with the conviction that I was put beyond the
pale of his favour.

Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vin-
dictiveness—not that he would have injured a hair of my
head, if it had been fully in his power to do so. Both by
nature and principle, he was superior to the mean gratifica-

-413-