d 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 garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar
felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume
the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was
practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends
now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it
was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to
itself: she had no more idea of money than a child.

When Ph