most provincial papers is
the result of lack of taste in the journalists themselves. You don't
find, for instance, that the more literary _Leader_ is less popular than
the bald and tasteless production it used to be?"

"On the contrary, I am told it is doing better," Henry replied, with a
touch of self-satisfaction which might have been modified if he had
inquired more closely into the cause of the increased circulation.

A series of local tragedies, and a heated controversy on the licensing
question, had probably more to do with the result than all the editor's
literary taste.

"You have a book here, I notice," continued Mr. Puddephatt, singling out
the novel Henry had been reading, and had laid down, with the
paper-knife between its pages near to the end, "in which I am not a
little interested. The critics have been denouncing it so heartily that
the publisher has difficulty in keeping pace with the demand."

"I'm sorry to hear it, for I mean to slate it too, and it is small
consolation if that only helps to sell the thing."

Henry turned to the table and picked up the red cloth volume. It was
entitled "Ashes," the name of the writer being Adrian Grant. The eyes of
his guest followed his movements, and studied his face with unusual
sharpness. He made a barely concealed effort to appear only languidly
interested when the editor proceeded to denounce the work in good set
terms.

"I certainly shall do myself the pleasure of 'letting myself go' when I
sit down to give Adrian Grant my opinion of his book."

Henry had entered fully into that most delusive joy of journalism which
spurs the young, raw writer on when he imagines he has some unpalatable
truths to deliver. But in this case there was a worthier impulse than
the common delight of attacking an author in print. Despite the
influences that seemed to have been undermining the simple religious
faith Henry had brought away from his native village, there still
remained in him a strong abhorrence of that paganish cynicism which,
expressed in fiction, tends to drag the mind into the sunless dungeons
of thought and away from the glorious light of Christian truth. This
book, "Ashes," was precisely of that type. Under the guise of a story
pretending to reflect the manners of the time, it discussed problems
which were in no sense representative of the varied whole of life, and
the discussion of which appealed mainly to the morbid taste of readers
who cared not a jot f