Philip glanced over the card, and read, “Mr. George Blackwell, Lincoln’s Inn.” His brow grew dark--he let the card fall on the ground, put his foot on it with a quiet scorn, and muttered to himself, “The lawyer shall not bribe me out of my curse!” He turned to the total of the bill--not heavy, for poor Catherine had regularly defrayed the expense of her scanty maintenance and humble lodging--paid the money, and, as the landlady wrote the receipt, he asked, “Who was the gentleman--the younger gentleman--who called in the morning of the day my mother died?” “Oh, sir! I am so sorry I did not get his name. Mr. Perkins said that he was some relation. Very odd he has never been since. But he’ll be sure to call again, sir; you had much better stay here.” “No: it does not signify. All that he could do is done. But stay, give him this note, if he should call.” Philip, taking the pen from the landlady’s hand, hastily wrote (while Mrs. Lacy went to bring him sealing-wax and a light) these words: “I cannot guess who you are: they say that you call yourself a relation; that must be some mistake. I knew not that my poor mother had relations so kind. But, whoever you be, you soothed her last hours--she died in your arms; and if ever--years, long years hence--we should chance to meet, and I can do anything to aid another, my blood, and my life, and my heart, and my soul, all are slaves to your will. If you be really of her kindred, I commend to you my brother: he is at ----, with Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, my mother’s soul will watch over you as a guardian angel. As for me, I ask no help from any one: I go into the world and will carve out my own way. So much do I shrink from the thought of charity from others, that I do not believe I could bless you as I do now if your kindness to me did not close with the stone upon my mother’s grave. PHILIP.” He sealed this letter, and gave it to the woman. “Oh, by the by,” said she, “I had forgot; the Doctor said that if you would send for him, he would be most happy to call on you, and give you any advice.” “Very well.” “And what shall I say to Mr. Blackwell?” “That he may tell his employer to remember our last interview.” With that Philip took up his bundle and strode from the house. He went first to the churchyard, where his mother’s remains had been that day interred. It was near at hand, a quiet, almost a rural, spot. The gate stood ajar, for there was a public path through the churchyard, and Philip entered with a noiseless tread. It was then near evening; the sun had broken out from the mists of the earlier day, and the wistering rays shone bright and holy upon the solemn place. “Mother! mother!” sobbed the orphan, as he fell prostrate before that fresh green mound: “here--here I have come to repeat my oath, to swear again that I will be faithful to the charge you have entrusted to your wretched son! And at this hour I dare ask if there be on this earth one more miserable and forlorn?”