orld. 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.

And so the time went on to Christmas and New Year. Weircombe kept these
festivals very quietly, yet not without cheerfulness. There was plenty
of holly about, and the children, plunging into the thick of the woods
at the summit of the "coombe" found mistletoe enough for the common
need. The tiny Church was prettily decorated by the rector's wife and
daughters, assisted by some of the girls of the village, and everybody
attended service on Christmas morning, not only because it was
Christmas, but because it was the last time their own parson would
preach to them, before he went away for three months or more to a warm
climate for the benefit of his health. But Helmsley did not join the
little crowd of affectionate parishioners-