One morning, Philip was sent a few miles into the country, to assist in cataloguing some books in the library of Sir Thomas Champerdown--that gentleman, who was a scholar, having requested that some one acquainted with the Greek character might be sent to him, and Philip being the only one in the shop who possessed such knowledge. It was evening before he returned. Mr. and Mrs. Plaskwith were both in the shop as he entered--in fact, they had been employed in talking him over. “I can’t abide him!” cried Mrs. Plaskwith. “If you choose to take him for good, I sha’n’t have an easy moment. I’m sure the ‘prentice that cut his master’s throat at Chatham, last week, was just like him.” “Pshaw! Mrs. P.,” said the bookseller, taking a huge pinch of snuff, as usual, from his waistcoat pocket. “I myself was reserved when I was young; all reflective people are. I may observe, by the by, that it was the case with Napoleon Buonaparte: still, however, I must own he is a disagreeable youth, though he attends to his business.” “And how fond of money he is!” remarked Mrs. Plaskwith, “he won’t buy himself a new pair of shoes!--quite disgraceful! And did you see what a look he gave Plimmins, when he joked about his indifference to his sole? Plimmins always does say such good things!” “He is shabby, certainly,” said the bookseller; “but the value of a book does not always depend on the binding.” “I hope he is honest!” observed Mrs. Plaskwith;--and here Philip entered. “Hum,” said Mr. Plaskwith; “you have had a long day’s work: but I suppose it will take a week to finish?” “I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir: two days more will conclude the task.” “There’s a letter for you,” cried Mrs. Plaskwith; “you owes me for it.” “A letter!” It was not his mother’s hand--it was a strange writing--he gasped for breath as he broke the seal. It was the letter of the physician. His mother, then, was ill--dying--wanting, perhaps, the necessaries of life. She would have concealed from him her illness and her poverty. His quick alarm exaggerated the last into utter want;--he uttered a cry that rang through the shop, and rushed to Mr. Plaskwith. “Sir, sir! my mother is dying! She is poor, poor, perhaps starving;--money, money!--lend me money!--ten pounds!--five!--I will work for you all my life for nothing, but lend me the money!” “Hoity-toity!” said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudging her husband--“I told you what would come of it: it will be ‘money or life’ next time.” Philip did not heed or hear this address; but stood immediately before the bookseller, his hands clasped--wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. Plaskwith, somewhat stupefied, remained silent. “Do you hear me?--are you human?” exclaimed Philip, his emotion revealing at once all the fire of his character. “I tell you my mother is dying; I must go to her! Shall I go empty-handed? Give me money!”