"Well, if you wish it, I'll tell you just what I think," she said, quietly--"But you mustn't call it criticism. I'm not clever enough to judge a book. I only know what pleases _me_,--and what pleases me may not please the world. I know very little about authors, and I've taught myself all that I do know. I love Shakespeare,--but I could not explain to you why I love him, because I'm not clever enough. I only feel his work,--I feel that it's all right and beautiful and wonderful--but I couldn't criticise it." "No one can,--no one should!" said Reay, warmly--"Shakespeare is above all criticism!" "But is he not always being criticised?" she asked. "Yes. By little men who cannot understand greatness,"--he answered--"It gives a kind of 'scholarly importance' to the little men, but it leaves the great one unscathed." This talk led to many others of a similar nature between them, and Reay's visits to Mary's cottage became more and more frequent. David Helmsley, weaving his baskets day by day, began to weave something more delicate and uncommon than the withes of willow,--a weaving which went on in his mind far more actively than the twisting and plaiting of the osiers in his hands. Sometimes in the evenings, when work was done, and he sat in his comfortable easy chair by the fire watching Mary at her sewing and Angus talking earnestly to her, he became so absorbed in his own thoughts that he scarcely heard their voices, and often when they spoke to him, he started from a profound reverie, unconscious of their words. But it was not the feebleness or weariness of age that made him seem at times indifferent to what was going on around him--it was the intensity and fervour of a great and growing idea of happiness in his soul,--an idea which he cherished so fondly and in such close secrecy, as to be almost afraid to whisper it to himself lest by some unhappy chance it should elude his grasp and vanish into nothingness.