n the brain of a person
who has never given a thought to the means of subsistence, and that of
one who has never known a day free from such cares. There must be some
special cerebral development representing the mental anguish kept up by
poverty.'

'I should say,' put in Amy, 'that it affects every function of the
brain. It isn't a special point of suffering, but a misery that colours
every thought.'

'True. Can I think of a single subject in all the sphere of my
experience without the consciousness that I see it through the medium of
poverty? I have no enjoyment which isn't tainted by that thought, and I
can suffer no pain which it doesn't increase. The curse of poverty is to
the modern world just what that of slavery was to the ancient. Rich and
destitute stand to each other as free man and bond. You remember the
line of Homer I have often quoted about the demoralising effect of
enslavement; poverty degrades in the same way.'

'It has had its effect upon me--I know that too well,' said Amy, with
bitter frankness.

Reardon glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he could not
say what was in his thoughts.

He worked on at his story. Before he had reached the end of it,
'Margaret Home' was published, and one day arrived a parcel containing
the six copies to which an author is traditionally entitled. Reardon was
not so old in authorship that he could open the packet without a slight
flutter of his pulse. The book was tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed with
pleasure as she caught sight of the cover and lettering:

'It may succeed, Edwin. It doesn't look like a book that fails, does
it?'

She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one of the
volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter.

'Good God!' he cried. 'What hellish torment it was to write that page!
I did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had to light the
lamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read the words. And to
think that people will skim over it without a suspicion of what it
cost the writer!--What execrable style! A potboy could write better
narrative.'

'Who are to have copies?'

'No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will expect one?'

'And--Milvain?'

'I suppose so,' he replied indifferently. 'But not unless he asks for
it. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it'll make him despise me. Then
one for ourselves. That leaves two--to light the fire with. We have
been rath