“I am unworthy of your thoughts, John. Leave me to the life I have chosen. It may be poor and vain and worthless, but it is the only life I'm fit for. And yet I love you--and you loved me. I suppose God makes men and women like that sometimes, and it is no use struggling. “One kiss, dear--it is the last.” XVIII. John Storm went back to Victoria Square with a bright and joyful face and found Mrs. Callender waiting for him, grim as a judge. He could see that her eyes were large and red with weeping, but she fell on him instantly with withering scorn. “So you're here at last, are ye? A pretty senseless thing this is, to be sure! What are you dreaming about? Are you bewitched or what? Do you suppose things can be broken off in this way? You to go to the leper islands indeed!” “I'm called, auntie, and when God calls a man, what can he do but answer with Samuel----” “Tut! Don't talk sic nonsense. Besides, Samuel had some sense. He waited to be called three times, and I havena heard this is your third time of calling.” John Storm laughed, and that provoked her to towering indignation. “Good God, what are you thinking of, man? There's that puir lassie--you're running away from her, too, aren't you? It's shameful, it's disgraceful, it's unprincipled, and _you_ to do it too!” “You needn't trouble about that, auntie,” said John; “she is going with me.” “What?” cried Mrs. Callender, and her face expressed boundless astonishment. “Yes,” said John, “you women are brimful of courage, God bless you! and she's the bravest of you all.” “But you'll no have the assurance to tak' that puir bit lassie to yonder God-forsaken spot?” “She wants to go--at least she wants to leave London.” “What does she? Weel, weel! But didn't I say she was nought but one of your Sisters or sic-like?--And you're going to let a slip of a girl tak' you away frae your ain work and your ain duty--and you call yourself a man!” He began to coax and appease her, and before long the grim old face was struggling between smiles and tears. “Tut! get along wi' ye! I've a great mind, though--I'd be liking fine to see her anyway. Now, where does she bide in London?” “Why do you want to know that, auntie?” “What's it to you, laddie? Can't a body call to say 'Good-bye' to a lassie, and tak' her a wee present before going away, without asking a man's permission?” “I shouldn't do it, though, if I were you.” “And why not, pray?” “Because she's as bright as a star and as quick as a diamond, and she'd see through you in a twinkling. Besides, I shouldn't advise----” “Keep your advice like your salt till you're asked for it, my man--and to think of any reasonable body giving up his work in London for that--that----” “Good men have gone out to the mission field, auntie.” “Mission fiddlesticks! Just a barber's chair, fit for every comer.” “And then this isn't the mission field exactly either.”