with child, had lost her head and accepted for the lease the first offer that was made.  She stored her furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience till her child was born.  But she had never been used to the management of money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered circumstances.  The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn his own living.  It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was sobbing still.

“You’d better go to Emma,” Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console the child better than anyone.

Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle’s knee, but Mr. Carey stopped him.

“We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I’ve got to prepare my sermon, and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today.  You can bring all your toys.  And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by you can take one thing for each of them.  Everything else is going to be sold.”

The boy slipped out of the room.  Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he turned to his correspondence with resentment.  On one side of the desk was a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation.  One especially seemed preposterous.  Immediately after Mrs. Carey’s death Emma had ordered from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead woman lay.  It was sheer waste of money.  Emma took far too much upon herself.  Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have dismissed her.

But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though his heart would break.  And she, feeling that he was almost her own son—­she had taken him when he was a month old—­consoled him with soft words.  She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was going to and about her own home in Devonshire—­her father kept a turnpike on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf—­till Philip forgot his tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.  Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped her to lay out his clothes on the bed.  She sent him into the nursery to gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.

But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his father and mother by.  He told Emma and asked her what he should take.

“You’d better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy.”