The epithet seemed peculiarly tender to Philip, who had lost his father before he was six years old, and he was more attracted to the timid and gentle little widow than to his equable but more robust Aunt Eusebia, Mrs. Maitland, his father’s elder sister, whom Philip fancied not a bit like his father except in sincerity, a quality common to the Maitlands and Burnetts.  Yet there was a family likeness between his aunt and a portrait of his father, painted by a Boston artist of some celebrity, which his mother, who survived her husband only three years, had saved for her boy.  His father was a farmer, but a man of considerable cultivation, though not college-bred—­his last request on his death-bed was that Phil should be sent to college—­a man who made experiments in improving agriculture and the breed of cattle and horses, read papers now and then on topics of social and political reform, and was the only farmer in all the hill towns who had what might be called a library.

It was all scattered at the time of the winding up of the farm estate, and the only jetsam that Philip inherited out of it was an annotated copy of Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, Young’s Travels in France, a copy of The Newcomes, and the first American edition of Childe Harold.  Probably these odd volumes had not been considered worth any considerable bid at the auction.  From his mother, who was fond of books, and had on more than one occasion, of the failure of teachers, taught in the village school in her native town before her marriage, Philip inherited his love of poetry, and he well remembered how she used to try to inspire him with patriotism by reading the orations of Daniel Webster (she was very fond of orations), and telling him war stories about Grant and Sherman and Sheridan and Farragut and Lincoln.  He distinctly remembered also standing at her knees and trying, at intervals, to commit to memory the Rime of the Ancient Mariner.  He had learned it all since, because he thought it would please his mother, and because there was something in it that appealed to his coming sense of the mystery of life.  When he repeated it to Celia, who had never heard of it, and remarked that it was all made up, and that she never tried to learn a long thing like that that wasn’t so, Philip could see that her respect for him increased a little.  He did not know that the child got it out of the library the next day and never rested till she knew it by heart.  Philip could repeat also the books of the Bible in order, just as glibly as the multiplication-table, and the little minx, who could not brook that a country boy should be superior to her in anything, had surprised her mother by rattling them all off to her one Sunday evening, just as if she had been born in New England instead of in New York.  As to the other fine things his mother read him, out of Ruskin and the like; Philip chiefly remembered what a pretty glow there was in his mother’s face when she read them, and that recollection was a valuable part of the boy’s education.