and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas
before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped
downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove
to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to
ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,
seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she
insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove
back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with
all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.

She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran
down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her
room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and
the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting
anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and
reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,
and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She
fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained
unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched
her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,
when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of
her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither
of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they
were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in
his memory.

"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."

"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would
have done."