ally, and, as it afterwards turned out, played
no small part in the story of his life. The good reviews, however, were
many, and their recommendation of the book hearty; they all prophesied
that it would be a great success. Yet, spite of this, 'Lynwood's
Heritage' didn't sell. Was it, as I had feared, that Derrick was too
devoid of the pushing faculty ever to make a successful writer? Or was
it that he was handicapped by being down in the provinces playing keeper
to that abominable old bear? Anyhow, the book was well received, read
with enthusiasm by an extremely small circle, and then it dropped down
to the bottom among the mass of overlooked literature, and its career
seemed to be over. I can recall the look in Derrick's face when one day
he glanced through the new Mudie and Smith lists and found 'Lynwood's
Heritage' no longer down. I had been trying to cheer him up about the
book and quoting all the favourable remarks I had heard about it. But
unluckily this was damning evidence against my optimist view.

He sighed heavily and put down the lists.

"It's no use to deceive one's self," he said, drearily, "'Lynwood' has
failed."

Something in the deep depression of look and tone gave me a momentary
insight into the author's heart. He thought, I know, of the agony of
mind this book had cost him; of those long months of waiting and their
deadly struggle, of the hopes which had made all he passed through seem
so well worth while; and the bitterness of the disappointment was no
doubt intensified by the knowledge that the Major would rejoice over it.

We walked that afternoon along the Bradford Valley, a road which Derrick
was specially fond of. He loved the thickly-wooded hills, and the
glimpses of the Avon, which, flanked by the canal and the railway, runs
parallel with the high road; he always admired, too, a certain little
village with grey stone cottages which lay in this direction, and liked
to look at the site of the old hall near the road: nothing remained of
it but the tall gate posts and rusty iron gates looking strangely dreary
and deserted, and within one could see, between some dark yew trees,
an old terrace walk with stone steps and balustrades--the most
ghostly-looking place you can conceive.

"I know you'll put this into a book some day," I said, laughing.

"Yes," he said, "it is already beginning to simmer in my brain."
Apparently his deep disappointment as to his first venture had in no way
affected h