are, he would
most likely never have fallen to this extremity of helplessness. It is
natural in a weak and sensitive man to dream of possibilities disturbed
by the force of circumstance. For one hour which he gave to conflict
with his present difficulties, Reardon spent many in contemplation of
the happiness that might have been.

Even yet, it needed but a little money to redeem all. Amy had no
extravagant aspirations; a home of simple refinement and freedom from
anxiety would restore her to her nobler self. How could he find fault
with her? She knew nothing of such sordid life as he had gone through,
and to lack money for necessities seemed to her degrading beyond
endurance. Why, even the ordinary artisan's wife does not suffer such
privations as hers at the end of the past year. For lack of that little
money his life must be ruined. Of late he had often thought about the
rich uncle, John Yule, who might perhaps leave something to Amy; but the
hope was so uncertain. And supposing such a thing were to happen; would
it be perfectly easy to live upon his wife's bounty--perhaps exhausting
a small capital, so that, some years hence, their position would be
no better than before? Not long ago, he could have taken anything from
Amy's hand; would it be so simple since the change that had come between
them?

Having written his second magazine-article (it was rejected by two
editors, and he had no choice but to hold it over until sufficient time
had elapsed to allow of his again trying The Wayside), he saw that he
must perforce plan another novel. But this time he was resolute not to
undertake three volumes. The advertisements informed him that numbers of
authors were abandoning that procrustean system; hopeless as he was, he
might as well try his chance with a book which could be written in a
few weeks. And why not a glaringly artificial story with a sensational
title? It could not be worse than what he had last written.

So, without a word to Amy, he put aside his purely intellectual work
and began once more the search for a 'plot.' This was towards the end of
February. The proofs of 'Margaret Home' were coming in day by day; Amy
had offered to correct them, but after all he preferred to keep his
shame to himself as long as possible, and with a hurried reading he
dismissed sheet after sheet. His imagination did not work the more
happily for this repugnant task; still, he hit at length upon a
conception which seemed absurd e