She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him soothingly. He laid his burning temples on her bosom, and nestled himself to her, as he had been wont to do, after some stormy paroxysm of his passionate and wayward infancy. So there they remained--their lips silent, their hearts speaking to each other--each from each taking strange succour and holy strength--till Philip rose, calm, and with a quiet smile, “Good-bye, mother; I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith.” “But you have no money for the coach-fare; here, Philip,” and she placed her purse in his hand, from which he reluctantly selected a few shillings. “And mind, if the man is rude and you dislike him--mind, you must not subject yourself to insolence and mortification.” “Oh, all will go well, don’t fear,” said Philip, cheerfully, and he left the house. Towards evening he had reached his destination. The shop was of goodly exterior, with a private entrance; over the shop was written, “Christopher Plaskwith, Bookseller and Stationer:” on the private door a brass plate, inscribed with “R---- and ---- Mercury Office, Mr. Plaskwith.” Philip applied at the private entrance, and was shown by a “neat-handed Phillis” into a small office-room. In a few minutes the door opened, and the bookseller entered. Mr. Christopher Plaskwith was a short, stout man, in drab-coloured breeches, and gaiters to match; a black coat and waistcoat; he wore a large watch-chain, with a prodigious bunch of seals, alternated by small keys and old-fashioned mourning-rings. His complexion was pale and sodden, and his hair short, dark, and sleek. The bookseller valued himself on a likeness to Buonaparte; and affected a short, brusque, peremptory manner, which he meant to be the indication of the vigorous and decisive character of his prototype. “So you are the young gentleman Mr. Roger Morton recommends?” Here Mr. Plaskwith took out a huge pocketbook, slowly unclasped it, staring hard at Philip, with what he designed for a piercing and penetrative survey. “This is the letter--no! this is Sir Thomas Champerdown’s order for fifty copies of the last Mercury, containing his speech at the county meeting. Your age, young man?--only sixteen?--look older;--that’s not it--that’s not it--and this is it!--sit down. Yes, Mr. Roger Morton recommends you--a relation--unfortunate circumstances--well educated--hum! Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?” “Sir?” “Can you cast accounts?--know bookkeeping?” “I know something of algebra, sir.” “Algebra!--oh, what else?” “French and Latin.” “Hum!--may be useful. Why do you wear your hair so long?--look at mine. What’s your name?” “Philip Morton.”