“Oh, William, he can’t sit on the Bible,” said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked tone.  “Couldn’t you get him some books out of the study?”

Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant.

“I don’t think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top, Mary Ann,” he said.  “The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men like ourselves.  It has no claim to divine authorship.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, William,” said Aunt Louisa.

Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut the top off his egg.

“There,” he said, handing it to Philip, “you can eat my top if you like.”

Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so took what he could.

“How have the chickens been laying since I went away?” asked the Vicar.

“Oh, they’ve been dreadful, only one or two a day.”

“How did you like that top, Philip?” asked his uncle.

“Very much, thank you.”

“You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon.”

Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be fortified for the evening service.

V

Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a good deal both about himself and about his dead parents.  Philip’s father had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable.  After a brilliant career at St. Luke’s Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began to earn money in considerable sums.  He spent it freely.  When the parson set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription, he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds:  Mr. Carey, thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious.  Then Henry Carey married a patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations, but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.  The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with reserve.  He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great beauty:  she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he deplored.  He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept hospitality without making some return.  He had seen grapes in the dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the vicarage