“But you haven’t got any money?” she said.

“I’m going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery.”

He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three rings, some links, and two pins.  One of them was a pearl and might fetch a considerable sum.

“It’s a very different thing, what a thing’s worth and what it’ll fetch,” said Aunt Louisa.

Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle’s stock phrases.

“I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot, and that’ll keep me till I’m twenty-one.”

Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black bonnet, and went to the bank.  In an hour she came back.  She went to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a little present for you,” she answered, smiling shyly.

He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack bulging with sovereigns.

“I couldn’t bear to let you sell your father’s jewellery.  It’s the money I had in the bank.  It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds.”

Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes.

“Oh, my dear, I can’t take it,” he said.  “It’s most awfully good of you, but I couldn’t bear to take it.”

When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense, any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents for her husband and for Philip.  In the course of years it had diminished sadly, but it was still with the Vicar a subject for jesting.  He talked of his wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the `nest egg.’

“Oh, please take it, Philip.  I’m so sorry I’ve been extravagant, and there’s only that left.  But it’ll make me so happy if you’ll accept it.”

“But you’ll want it,” said Philip.

“No, I don’t think I shall.  I was keeping it in case your uncle died before me.  I thought it would be useful to have a little something I could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don’t think I shall live very much longer now.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t say that.  Why, of course you’re going to live for ever.  I can’t possibly spare you.”

“Oh, I’m not sorry.”  Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a moment, drying them, she smiled bravely.  “At first, I used to pray to God that He might not take me first, because I didn’t want your uncle to be left alone, I didn’t want him to have all the suffering, but now I know that it wouldn’t mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me.  He wants to live more than I do, I’ve never been the wife he wanted, and I daresay he’d marry again if anything happened to me.  So I should like to go first.  You don’t think it’s selfish of me, Philip, do you?  But I couldn’t bear it if he went.”