By April the book was published, and at the end of this month, laid
aside by sickness of the vague kind called locally "a decline," she took
to her bed, rising only to lay a few sticks upon the fire from her store
gathered in the autumn, or to brew herself a cup of tea. She waited for
the tokens of her book's conquests in the great world of thought and
men. She had waited so long for her recognition, and now it was coming.
She felt that it would not be long before she was recognised as one of
the singers of the world. Indeed, had she but known it, her recognition
was already on its way.
In a great city of the north a clever young reporter was cutting open
the leaves of "The Heather Lintie" with a hand almost feverishly eager.
"This is a perfect treasure. This is a find indeed. Here is my chance
ready to my hand."
His paper was making a specialty of "exposures." If there was anything
weak and erring, anything particularly helpless and foolish which could
make no stand for itself, the "Night Hawk" was on the pounce. Hitherto
the junior reporter had never had a "two-column chance." He had read--it
was not much that he _had_ read--Macaulay's too famous article on
"Satan" Montgomery, and, not knowing that Macaulay lived to regret the
spirit of that assault, he felt that if he could bring down the "Night
Hawk" on "The Heather Lintie," his fortune was made.
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