He hesitated a moment, being always very diffident about his own
work; but presently, having provided me with a cigar and made a good
deal of unnecessary work in arranging the sheets of the manuscript,
he began to read aloud, rather nervously, the opening chapters of
the book now so well known under the title of 'Lynwood's Heritage.'

I had heard nothing of his for the last four years, and was amazed
at the gigantic stride he had made in the interval. For, spite of a
certain crudeness, it seemed to me a most powerful story; it rushed
straight to the point with no wavering, no beating about the bush;
it flung itself into the problems of the day with a sort of sublime
audacity; it took hold of one; it whirled one along with its own
inherent force, and drew forth both laughter and tears, for
Derrick's power of pathos had always been his strongest point.

All at once he stopped reading.

"Go on!" I cried impatiently.

"That is all," he said, gathering the sheets together.

"You stopped in the middle of a sentence!" I cried in exasperation.

"Yes," he said quietly, "for six months."

"You provoking fellow! why, I wonder?"

"Because I didn't know the end."