The rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled through the innumerable correspondence.  He glanced at the address and at the signature, then tore the letter in two and threw it into the washing-basket by his side.  Suddenly he came upon one signed Helen.  He did not know the writing.  It was thin, angular, and old-fashioned.  It began:  my dear William, and ended:  your affectionate sister.  Then it struck him that it was from his own mother.  He had never seen a letter of hers before, and her handwriting was strange to him.  It was about himself.

My dear William,

Stephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on the birth of our son and your kind wishes to myself.  Thank God we are both well and I am deeply thankful for the great mercy which has been shown me.  Now that I can hold a pen I want to tell you and dear Louisa myself how truly grateful I am to you both for all your kindness to me now and always since my marriage.  I am going to ask you to do me a great favour.  Both Stephen and I wish you to be the boy’s godfather, and we hope that you will consent.  I know I am not asking a small thing, for I am sure you will take the responsibilities of the position very seriously, but I am especially anxious that you should undertake this office because you are a clergyman as well as the boy’s uncle.  I am very anxious for the boy’s welfare and I pray God night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and Christian man.  With you to guide him I hope that he will become a soldier in Christ’s Faith and be all the days of his life God-fearing, humble, and pious.

Your affectionate sister,
Helen.

Philip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his face on his hands.  It deeply touched and at the same time surprised him.  He was astonished at its religious tone, which seemed to him neither mawkish nor sentimental.  He knew nothing of his mother, dead now for nearly twenty years, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she was simple and pious.  He had never thought of that side of her.  He read again what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; he had turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment; perhaps it was better that she was dead.  Then a sudden impulse caused him to tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seem peculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was something indecent in his reading what exposed his mother’s gentle soul.  He went on with the Vicar’s dreary correspondence.

A few days later he went up to London, and for the first time for two years entered by day the hall of St. Luke’s Hospital.  He went to see the secretary of the Medical School; he was surprised to see him and asked Philip curiously what he had been doing.  Philip’s experiences had given him a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many things:  such a question would have