It was this knowledge that had been Ann Woodburn’s stumbling-block and most painful trial. Loving Mr. Clavering with all the strength of her deeply-feeling nature, she could not bring herself to contemplate an alliance with a man who was not a Christian, whatever else he might be. Oh, many a long and deep struggle it had occasioned her; many a restless and sleepless night; many a sorrowful, miserable day. Sometimes her agony rose to such desperation that she had locked herself in her bedroom and flung herself on the floor, and rolled there in a frenzy of grief. All her eloquence had been used to induce Henry Clavering to read works of our great divines on the subject; all the arguments with which they had furnished her she had zealously urged on him; but without any effect but that of making him as wretched as herself. He told her that most gladly would he be convinced, most earnestly he wished that he could think as she did; but he could not, and would not conceal from her the truth. After long endeavours and waitings on the part of Ann, and a state of mind most wearing to Mr. Clavering himself, Ann had told him that she felt that she never could consent to a union whilst their opinion on so vital a point remained as they were and though to her it was like dividing soul and body, she would not remain a tie upon him; she left him free as the winds to choose some more fortunate and, as he might think, more reasonable woman. To this proposal Henry Clavering would not listen. “No,” said he, “my dearest Ann, I cannot change my heart and soul at pleasure. With you or with no one must I unite my life. I feel the greatness of your self-sacrifice, but it is not in your power to set me free. I am what I am, and must be. My love for you is rooted into the deepest region of my heart—neither you nor I can tear it out at will. I will wait for you as long as you like—and you or I may change.” Sir Emanuel Clavering had seconded the proposal of his son with the most zealous advocacy. He said he rejoiced at the idea of seeing Cotmanhaye Manor lit up and warmed and graced by such a mistress. He told Ann that she must not make herself and Henry wretched by silly scruples. They were both as good as they could be, and they might well leave all the rest to the winding-up of time. But then Sir Emanuel let slip a word which would have spoiled all had there been any chance of Ann’s acquiescence. “Come,” said he, “dismiss any more girlish fancies; let me see you my dear daughter-in-law, and at Cotmanhaye we will make you as pretty a little infidel as can be wished.”