it."

Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a
smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad.

"It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. It
does not improve the temper."

He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out of
the room.

Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of his
handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him.
She had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go over
to England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work,
had refused. She did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she
said she would wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stay
at the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew worse
she would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing him
again. If his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill to
hold a pen. Philip opened the letter. It ran as follows:

My dear Philip,

I regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life early this
morning. She died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. The change for the
worse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. She was fully
prepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete assurance of
a blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of our
blessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you to be present at
the funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you can. There is
naturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders and I am very much
upset. I trust that you will be able to do everything for me.
Your affectionate uncle,
William Carey.

LII

Next day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother he
had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt's death shocked
him and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first time
his own mortality. He could not realise what life would be for his uncle
without the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tended
him for forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopeless
grief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothing
which would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number of apposite
speeches.

He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went i