Gerald Yorke\'s book was out. An enterprising firm of publishers had been found to undertake it, and they brought it forth in due course to the public. Great reviews followed closely upon its advent, lauding its merits and beauties to the skies. Three critiques appeared in one week. The great morning paper gave one, as did the two chief weekly reviewing journals. And each one in its turn sung or said that for ages the public had not been so blest as in this most valuable work of fiction.

In his writing-room, the three glorious reviews before him, sat Hamish Channing, his heart and face alike in a glow. Had the praises been bestowed upon himself, he could scarcely have rejoiced more. How Gerald must have altered the book, he thought: and he felt grieved and vexed to have passed so uncompromising a judgment upon his friend\'s capabilities as a writer of fiction, when the manuscript was submitted to him. "It must have been that he wrote it too hastily, and has now taken time and consideration to his aid," decided Hamish.

Carrying the papers in his hand he sought his wife, and in the fulness of his heart read out to her the most telling sentences. Bitter though the resentment was, that Gerald was cherishing against Hamish Channing, he could but have experienced gratification had he witnessed the genuine satisfaction of both, the hearty emphasis which Hamish gave to the laudations bestowed on the author.

"How hard he must have worked at it, Ellen."

"Yes; I did not think Gerald had the application in him."

With his arm on the elbow of his chair, and his refined face a little raised as it rested on his hand, Hamish took a few moments for thought. The eyes seemed to be seeking for something in the evening sky; the sweet light of hope pervaded unmistakably the whole bright countenance. Hamish Channing was but gazing at the vision that had become so entirely his; one that was rarely absent from him; that seemed to be depicted in all its radiant colouring whenever he looked out for it. Fame, reward, appreciation; all were stirring his spirit within, in the vivid light of buoyant expectancy.

"And, if Gerald\'s book has received this award of praise, what will not mine obtain?" ran his thoughts. For Hamish knew that, try as Gerald would, it was not in him to write as he himself could.

He took his hat and went forth to congratulate Gerald, unable to be silent under this great fame that had fallen on his early friend. Being late in the day, he thought Gerald might be found at his wife\'s lodgings, for he knew he had been there more than usual of late.

True. Gerald sought the lodgings as a kind of refuge. His chambers had become disagreeably hot, and it was only by dint of the utmost caution on his own part, and diligence on his servant\'s, that he could venture into them or out of them. The lodgings were less known, and Gerald felt safer there. Things were going very cross with him just now; money seemed to be wanted by his wife and his children and his creditors, all in a hurry, not to speak of the greatest want, himself; and there were moments when Gerald Yorke felt that he might have to seek some far-off city of refuge, as Roland had done, and sail for a Port Natal.

There was no one in the sitting-room when Hamish Channing entered it. The maid said Mr. Yorke had gone out; Mrs. Yorke was putting her children to bed. On the table, side by side with the papers containing the three great reviews, lay a copy of the work. Hamish took it up eagerly, anxious to see the new and good writing that had superseded the old.

He could not find it. One or two bad passages, that he specially remembered, caught his eye; they were there still, unaltered. Had Gerald carelessly overlooked them? Hamish was turning over the pages in some wonder, when Winny came in.

Came in, cross, fractious, tearful. Lonely as Mrs. Gerald Yorke\'s life had been in Gloucestershire, she had long wished herself back, for the one in London was becoming too trying. Winny had none of the endurance that some wives can show, and love and suffer on.

She came tip to Hamish with outstretched hand. But that he and Ellen proved the generous friends they did, she could not have borne things. Many and many a day there would have been no dinner for the poor little girls, no stop-gap for the petty creditors supplying the daily wants, no comforts of any sort at home, save for the unobtrusive, silently aiding hand of Hamish Channing.

"What is the matter, Winny?" asked Hamish, in relation to the tears. And he spoke very much as he would to a child. In fact, Mrs. Gerald Yorke had mostly to be treated as one.

"Gerald has been so cross; he boxed little Kitty\'s ears, and nearly boxed mine," pleaded poor Winny, putting herself into a low rocking-chair, near the window. "It is so unreasonable of him, you know, Mr. Channing, to vent it upon us. It\'s just as if it were our fault."

"Vent what?" asked Hamish, taking a seat at the table, and turning to face her.

"All of it," said Winny, in her childish, fractious way. "His shortness of money, and the many bothers he is in. I can\'t help it. I would if I could, but if I can\'t, I can\'t, and Gerald knows I can\'t."

"In bothers as usual?" spoke Hamish, in his gay way.

"He is never out of them, Mr. Channing; you know he is not; and they get worse and worse. Gerald has no certain income at all; and it seems to me that what he earns by writing, whether it\'s for magazines or whether it\'s for newspapers, is always drawn beforehand, for he never has any money to bring home. Of course the tradespeople come and ask for their money; of course the landlady expects to be paid her weekly rent; and when they insist on seeing Gerald, or stop him when he goes out, he comes back in such a passion you never saw. She made him savage this evening, and he took and boxed Kitty."

"She! Who?"

"The landlady--Miss Cook."

"Winny, I paid Miss Cook myself, last week."

"Oh, but I didn\'t tell you there was more owing to her; I didn\'t like to," answered helpless Winny. "There is; and she has begun to worry always. She gets things in for us, and wants to be paid for them."

"Of course she does," thought Hamish. "Where\'s Gerald?" he asked.

"Gone out somewhere. You know that money you let me have to pay the horrible bill I couldn\'t sleep for, and didn\'t dare to give to Gerald," she continued, putting up her hands to her little distressed face. "I\'ve got something to tell you about it."

Hamish was at a loss. The bills he and his wife had advanced money for were getting numerous. Winny, rocking herself gently, saw he did not recollect.

"It was for the shoes and stockings for the children and the boots for me; we had nothing to our feet. Ellen brought me the money last Saturday--three pounds--though the bill was not quite that. Well, Gerald saw the sovereigns lying in the dressing-table drawer--it was so stupid of me to leave them there!--and he took them. First he asked me where I\'d got them from; I said I had scraped them up to pay for the children\'s shoes. Upon that, he put them in his pocket, saying he had bills far more pressing than children\'s shoe bills, and must take them for his own use. O-o-o-o-o-oh!" concluded the young wife, with a burst of her childish grief, "I am very miserable."

"You should have told your husband the money belonged to Mrs. Channing--and was given to you by her for a special purpose."

"Good gracious!" cried Winny, astonishment arresting the tears in her pretty eyes. "As if I would dare to tell him that! If Gerald thought you or Ellen helped me, he would be in the worst passion of all. I\'m not sure but he\'d beat me."

"Why?"

"He would think that I was running up a great debt on my own score for him to pay back sometime. And he has such oceans of pride, besides. You must never tell him, Mr. Channing."

"How does he think the accounts get paid?" asked Hamish.

"He does not think about it," she answered, eagerly. "So long as he is not bothered, he won\'t be bothered. He will never look at a single bill, or hear me speak of one. As far as he knows, the people and Miss Cook come and worry me for money regularly. But oh! Mr. Channing! if I were to be worried to any degree, I should die. I should wish to die, for I could not bear it. Ellen knows I could not."

Yes; in a degree, Hamish and his wife both knew this. Winny Yorke was quite unfitted to battle with the storms of the world; they could not see her breasting them, and not help. A brother of hers--and Gerald was aware of this--who had been overwhelmed with the like, proved how ill he was fitted to bear, by putting a terrible end to them and all else.

"And so, that bill for the shoes and stockings was not paid, and they came after it today, and abused Gerald--for I had said to them it would be ready money," pursued Winny, rocking away. "Oh, he was so angry! he forbid me to buy shoes; he said the children must go barefoot until he was in a better position. If the man comes tomorrow, and insists on seeing me, I shall have to run away. And Fredy\'s ill."

The wind-up was rather unexpected, and given in a different tone. Fredy was the eldest of the little girls, Kitty the second, Rosy the third.

"If she should be going to have the measles, the others will be sure to catch it, and then what should I do?" went on Winny, piteously. "There\'d be a doctor to pay for and medicine to be got, and I don\'t think druggists give credit to strangers. It may turn out to be only a bad cold."

"To be sure it may," said Hamish cheeri............