We might easily add to these examples; but the above is sufficient to show that the novelist who sits down to write a work of fiction merely for the sake of airing an opinion, or to please a certain person, neither caring in what language he expresses himself nor how absurd the book may be, may be sure of a warm reception when his work falls into the hands of the circulating-library critics. BY MEAD AND STREAM. CHAPTER IX.—SLANDER’S SHAFT. They were still at breakfast when the postman arrived, and Madge was surprised to find amongst the letters two from the Manor. Both were addressed in Miss Hadleigh’s large angular writing: one was for her uncle, the other for herself. As Madge had long conducted her uncle’s correspondence, she attended to his letters first; but remembering that still unexplained quarrel, misunderstanding, or whatever it was, between him and Mr Hadleigh, she discreetly kept the letter from Ringsford back till she had disposed of the others. These were all on business, and of a most satisfactory nature: good prices for grain, good prices for sheep and cattle, and reports of a deficient harvest in America, whilst that of Willowmere was excellent. Uncle Dick was in capital humour, and disposed to be on good terms with everybody. It is wonderful how prosperous all the world looks when our own affairs are thriving; and how merciful we can be in our judgment as to the cause of our neighbour’s failure. Then Madge—sly Madge—opened the Ringsford letter, and read a formal invitation to dinner at the Manor a fortnight hence, on the eve of Mr Philip Hadleigh’s departure. ‘You will go, of course, uncle?’ said Madge, looking up with a coaxing smile.—‘And you will break through your rule of not going to parties for once, aunt? You know we may not see Philip for a long, long time.’ Aunt Hessy smiled, and looked inquiringly at her husband. Dick Crawshay was not a man to bear malice; but it was evident that he did not relish this invitation. He was not frowning, but his face was not quite so cheerful as it had been a moment before. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, rising. ‘I hate these sort of things at Ringsford. They’ve always a lot of people that don’t know anything’ (about farming and cattle, he meant); ‘and when I’m there, I always feel as uncomfortable as a bull in a china-shop that didn’t want to break the crockery. Certain, I have spoken to some young fools that knew all about betting lists, but not one that knew the points of a horse—except Wrentham. They only want me there because they want you, Madge; and if it wasn’t for you, I’d say no straight off.’ ‘But you mustn’t do that, uncle; at least wait till we see what is in my letter.’ ‘You can tell me about it when I come in. That new reaping-machine ain’t doing what I expected of it, and I want to give it a fair trial under my own eyes.’