"I never had anybody talk to me so before, Mr. Rhys," she said, thinking to let it pass.
"Perhaps you never will again," he said. "Hear it now. The Lord Jesus is not far off—as you think—he is very near; he can hear the faintest whisper of a petition that you send to him. It is his message I bring you to-day—a message to you. I am his servant, and he has given me this charge for you to-day—to tell you that he loves you—that he has given his life for yours—and that he calls Eleanor Powle to give him her heart, and then to give him her life, in all the obedience his service may require."
Eleanor felt her heart strangely bowed, subdued, bent to his words. "I will"—was the secret language of her thoughts—"but I must not let this man see all I am feeling, if I can help it." She held herself still, looking out of the window, where the rain fell in torrents yet, though the thunder and the lightning were no longer near. So did he; he added no more to his last words, and a silence lasted in the old ruined window as if its chance occupants were gone again. As the silence lasted, Eleanor felt it grow awkward. She was at a loss how to break it. It was broken for her then.
"What will you do, Miss Powle?"
"I will think about it"—she answered, startled and hesitating.
"How long, before you decide?"
"How can I tell?" she said.
"You are shrinking from a decision already formed. The answer is given in your secret thoughts, and something is rising up in the midst of them to thwart it. Shall I tell my Master that his message is refused?"
"Mr. Rhys!" said Eleanor looking up, "I never heard any one talk so in all my life! You speak as if—"
"As if, what?"