"But what is your reason, May?" he said, pacing up and down the room. "You must have some reason for what you say, and I cannot rest till you tell me what it is. What is it, May?"
"I had rather not tell you all my thoughts about it, Claude," I said; "it would be very difficult, and would cost us both much pain. And Claude," I said, earnestly, "it would do no good; my mind is quite made up: I cannot do as you ask me, so please do not press me for the reason, Claude."
"But I will know it, May," he said, almost angrily. "I am not going home till you have told me; so you had better let me hear it at once."
And then I felt that, perhaps, it was sinful cowardice which made me afraid to tell Claude my reason; perhaps I was grieving my dear Lord and Master by being ashamed of Him, by being ashamed to tell Claude what it was that I held far more dear than his love for me, even the priceless, the everlasting love of my Lord. And yet how could I do it? Claude unexpectedly came to my help.
"May," he said, quickly, "do you love any one better than me—is that it?"
"Yes, Claude," I said, in a low voice; "there is one love which I hold more dear than yours—that is it."
"Who is it, May?" he said, impatiently. "I didn't know you knew any one else well enough; who can it be?"
"It is no one on earth, Claude," I said; "I mean the Lord Jesus Christ."
"What nonsense, May!" he exclaimed. "Whatever in the world has that to do with it? I am not going to interfere with your religion; you may be as religious as ever you please—a perfect saint if you like; I won't hinder you. So now put all those absurd notions out of your head, and let us talk about the future. That matter is settled; you shall be twice as religious after you are married as you were before."
"But, Claude, it is not settled," I said; "you know I could not expect to be happy, or to enjoy God's presence, if I was disobeying His clear command."