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CVIII

he winter passed. Now and then Philip went to the hos-
Tpital, slinking in when it was late and there was little
chance of meeting anyone he knew, to see whether there
were letters for him. At Easter he received one from his un-
cle. He was surprised to hear from him, for the Vicar of
Blackstable had never written him more than half a dozen
letters in his whole life, and they were on business matters.
Dear Philip,
If you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to
come down here I shall be pleased to see you. I was very ill
with my bronchitis in the winter and Doctor Wigram never
expected me to pull through. I have a wonderful constitu-
tion and I made, thank God, a marvellous recovery.
Yours affectionately,
William Carey.
The letter made Philip angry. How did his uncle think
he was living? He did not even trouble to inquire. He might
have starved for all the old man cared. But as he walked
home something struck him; he stopped under a lamp-post
and read the letter again; the handwriting had no longer the
business-like firmness which had characterised it; it was
larger and wavering: perhaps the illness had shaken him
more than he was willing to confess, and he sought in that
formal note to express a yearning to see the only relation