Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother lived.  He made friends with Mary Ann.  She was a chubby little person of thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it; but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her master and mistress.  Her father and mother lived in a little house off Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out.  Her stories of the sea touched Philip’s imagination, and the narrow alleys round the harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them.  One evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil communications corrupted good manners.  He disliked the fisher folk, who were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel.  But Philip was more comfortable in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took his toys and played there.  His aunt was not sorry.  She did not like disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen.  If he fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he went to school.  Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified.  Sometimes she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann explained the joke.  Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she heard, and she smiled with constraint.

“He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William,” she said, when she returned to her sewing.

“One can see he’s been very badly brought up.  He wants licking into shape.”

On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred.  Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep.  Josiah Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which the Vicar had adorned the altar.  He had bought them second-hand in Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well.  But Josiah Graves said they were popish.  This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar.  He had been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for the Church of Rome.  He would willingly have made the service more ornate than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles.  He drew the line at incense.  He hated the word protestant.