leave for Cambridge t day, as ure a ime  severe punis a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one  act of ility, one upbraiding o impress me momently ion t I  beyond the pale of his favour.

    Not t St. Jo of uncian vindictiveness— not t  o do so. Boture and principle, o tification of vengeance:   forgotten t turned to me, t tten on tween me and o oned every answer he gave me.

    abstain from conversing o join   man ed to, and unsian, in evincing  skill ing and speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every p of interest and approval ain austere co o me, y become no longer fles marble; , blue gem; ongue a speaking instrument— nothing more.

    All torture to me—refined, lingering torture. It kept up a sloion and a trembling trouble of grief,   draest stain of crime. Especially I felt ttempt to propitiate  my rutrangement—no yearning after reconciliation; and t falling tears blistered t, t on  ter of stone or metal. to ers, meantime,  kinder t mere coldness  sufficiently convince me ely I ; and t by force, but on principle.

    t before  o see  sunset, and remembering, as I looked at  ted as  ions, I o make a last attempt to regain  out and approacood leaning over ttle gate; I spoke to t at once.

    “St. Joill angry  us be friends.”

    “I ill cemplating as I approached.

    “No, St. Jo friends as .”

    “Are ? t is , I wish you no ill and all good.”

    “I believe you, St. Jo, as I am your kin