Only upon such a mind as Hamish Channing's, with his nervous attributes of genius, his refined sensitiveness, could the review have brought home its worst bitterness. Fortunately such minds are very rare. Gerald Yorke had little conception of the extent of its fruit. _He_ would have set on and sworn off his anger, and called the writer, who could thus stab in the dark, a false coward, and sent him by wishes to all kinds of unorthodox places, and vowed aloud to his friends that he should like to horsewhip or shoot him. Thus the brunt, with him, would have been worked off; never so much as touched the vital feelings, if Gerald possessed any. It was another thing with Hamish Channing. He could almost have died, rather than have spoken of the attack to any living man; and if forced to it, as we are sometimes forced to unwelcome things, it would have brought the red blush of shame to his sensitive brow, to his shrinking spirit. He sat on; on, with his aching heart. One hand was pressed upon his chest: a dull pain had seated itself there. Never again, as it seemed to him, should he look up from the blow. More and more the cruelty and the injustice struck upon him. Does it so strike upon you, reader? The book was not perfection (I never met with one that was, in spite of what the reviews chose to affirm of Mr. Gerald Yorke's), but it was at least written in an earnest, truthful spirit, to the utmost of the abilities God had given him. How had it invoked this requital? Hamish pondered the question, and could not answer it. What had he done to be shown up to the public; a butt for any, that would, to pitch scorn at? There was no appeal; there could be no redress. The book had been held forth to the world--at least to the thousands of it that would read the "Snarler"--as a bad and incapable book, one they must avoid as the work of a miserably presumptive and incapable man. A slight movement in the next room, and Mrs. Channing came in with Nelly. Miss Nelly, in consideration of the late substantial tea, had not been sent to bed at the customary hour. Hamish slipped the review inside his table-desk, and greeted them with a smile, sweet-tempered as ever under the blow. But his wife saw that some change lay on his face. "Is anything the matter, Hamish? You look--worn; as if you had received some ill news." "Do I? I am a little tired, Ellen. It has been very hot today." "I thought you were not going to work tonight." "Oh, I'm not working. Well, young lady, what now?" Miss Nelly had climbed on his knees. She had been brought in to say goodnight. "When's the ship coming home, papa?" He suddenly bent down and hid his face on the child's bright one. Heaven alone knew what the moment's suffering was and how he contrived not to betray it. "Will it come tomorrow, papa?" "We shall see, darling. I don't know." The subdued, patient tone had something of hopelessness in it. Mrs. Channing thought he must be very tired.