"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!"