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 vindictiveness- 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 gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned him and his love，but he had not forgotten the words; and as long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his look，when he turned to me，that they were always written on the air between me and him; whenever I spoke，they sounded in my voice to his ear，and their echo toned every answer he gave me.

He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man within him had a pleasure unimparted to，and unshared by，the pure Christian，in evincing with what skill he could，while acting and speaking apparently just as usual，extract from every deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly municatedom a certain austere charm to his language and manner. To me，he was in reality bee no longer flesh，but marble; his eye was a cold，bright，blue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument- nothing more.

All this was torture to me- refined，lingering torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief，which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how- if I were his wife，this good man，pure as the deep sunless source，could soon kill me，without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood，or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.