not unworthy
of her friendship, he rose up several degrees in the popular estimation,
and many a time those who were the self-elected wits and wise-acres of
the place, would "look in" as they termed it, at Mary's cottage, and
pass the evening talking with him and with "old David," who, if he did
not say much, listened the more. Mr. Bunce, the doctor, and Mr. Twitt,
the stonemason, were in particular profoundly impressed when they knew
that Reay had worked for two years on a London newspaper.

"Ye must 'ave a ter'uble knowledge of the world, Mister!" said Twitt,
thoughtfully--"Just ter'uble!"

"Yes, I should assume it must be so,"--murmured Bunce--"I should think
it could hardly fail to be so?"

Reay gave a short laugh.

"Well, I don't know!" he said--"You may call it a knowledge of the world
if you like--I call it an unpleasant glimpse into the shady side of
life. I'd rather walk in the sunshine."

"And what would you call the sunshine, sir?" asked Bunce, with his head
very much on one side like a meditative bird.

Honesty, truth, belief in God, belief in good!"--answered Angus, with
some passion--"Not perpetual scheming, suspicion of motives, personal
slander, and pettiness--O Lord!--such pettiness as can hardly be
believed! Journalism is the most educational force in the world, but its
power is being put to wrong uses."

"Well,--said Twitt, slowly--"I aint so blind but I can see through a
wall when there's a chink in it. An' when I gets my 'Daily' down from
Lunnun, an' sees harf a page given up to a kind o' poster about Pills,
an' another harf a page praisin' up somethin' about Tonics, I often sez
to myself: 'Look 'ere, Twitt! What are ye payin' yer pennies out for?
For a Patent Pill or for News? For a Nervy Tonic or for the latest
pol'tics?' An' myself--me--Twitt--answers an' sez--'Why ye're payin' for
news an' pol'tics, of course!' Well then, I sez, 'Twitt, ye aint
gettin' nothin' o' the sort!' An' t' other day, blow'd if I didn't see
in my paper a long piece about ''Ow to be Beautiful'--an' that 'adn't
nothin' to do wi' me nor no man, but was just mere gabble for fool
women. ''Ow to be Beautiful,' aint news o' the world!"

"No,"--said Reay--"You're not intended to know the news of the world.
News, real news, is the property of the Stock Exchange. It's chiefly
intended for company gambling purposes. The People are not expected to
know much about it. Modern Journalism seeks to play Pope and assert the
doctr