“Here’s Master Philip,” said Emma.

Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy.  Then on second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead.  He was a man of somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness.  He was clean-shaven.  His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine that in his youth he had been good-looking.  On his watch-chain he wore a gold cross.

“You’re going to live with me now, Philip,” said Mr. Carey.  “Shall you like that?”

Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.

“Yes.”

“You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother.”

The child’s mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.

“Your dear mother left you in my charge.”

Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself.  When the news came that his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if her death forced him to undertake the care of her son.  He was well over fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a small boy who might be noisy and rough.  He had never much liked his sister-in-law.

“I’m going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow,” he said.

“With Emma?”

The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.

“I’m afraid Emma must go away,” said Mr. Carey.

“But I want Emma to come with me.”

Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too.  Mr. Carey looked at them helplessly.

“I think you’d better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment.”

“Very good, sir.”

Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently.  Mr. Carey took the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.

“You mustn’t cry,” he said.  “You’re too old to have a nurse now.  We must see about sending you to school.”

“I want Emma to come with me,” the child repeated.

“It costs too much money, Philip.  Your father didn’t leave very much, and I don’t know what’s become of it.  You must look at every penny you spend.”

Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor.  Philip’s father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house in Bruton Street.  This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in delicate health, finding herself