Half modern literature is based upon them, Catherine Leyburn knew of no supreme right but the right of God to the obedience of man.
Oh, and besides--besides--it is impossible that he should care so very much.

The time is so short--there is so little in her, comparatively, to attract a man of such resource, such attainments, such access to the best things of life.
She cannot--in a kind of terror--she _will_ not, believe in her own love-worthiness, in her own power to deal a lasting wound.
Then her _own_ claim?
Has she any claim, has the poor bounding heart that she cannot silence, do what she will, through all this strenuous debate, no claim to satisfaction, to joy?
She locks here hands round her knees, conscious, poor soul, that the worst struggle is _here_, the quickest agony _here_.

But she does not waver for an instant.

And her weapons are all ready.

The inmost soul of her is a fortress well stored, whence at any moment the mere personal craving of the natural man can be met, repulsed, slain.
'_Man approacheth so much the nearer unto God the farther he departeth from all earthly comfort._' '_If thou couldst perfectly annihilate thyself and empty thyself of all created love, then should I be constrained to flow into thee with greater abundance of grace._' '_When thou lookest unto the creature the sight of the Creator is withdrawn from thee._' '_Learn in all things to overcome thyself for the love of thy Creator..._' She presses the sentences she has so often meditated in her long solitary walks about the mountains into her heart.