ere to
you, sir."

"Mrs. Lacy's! oh, I know. Poor Mrs. Morton! Bad case--very bad--must be
off. Keep him quiet, ma'am. Good day! Look in to-morrow-nine o'clock.
Put a little lint with the lotion on the head, ma'am. Mrs. Morton! Ah!
bad job that."

Here the apothecary had shuffled himself off to the street door, when
Arthur laid his hand on his arm.

"Mrs. Morton! Did you say Morton, sir? What kind of a person--is she
very ill?"

"Hopeless case, sir--general break-up. Nice woman--quite the lady--known
better days, I'm sure."

"Has she any children--sons?"

"Two--both away now--fine lads--quite wrapped up in them--youngest
especially."

"Good heavens! it must be she--ill, and dying, and destitute,
perhaps,"--exclaimed Arthur, with real and deep feeling; "I will go with
you, sir. I fancy that I know this lady--that," he added generously, "I
am related to her."

"Do you?--glad to hear it. Come along, then; she ought to have some one
near her besides servants: not but what Jenny, the maid, is uncommonly
kind. Dr. -----, who attends her sometimes, said to me, says he, 'It is
the mind, Mr. Perkins; I wish we could get back her boys."

"And where are they?"

"'Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sidney--"

"Sidney!"

"Ah! that was his name--pretty name. D'ye know Sir Sidney
Smith?--extraordinary man, sir! Master Sidney was a beautiful
child--quite spoiled. She always fancied him ailing--always sending
for me. 'Mr. Perkins,' said she, 'there's something the matter with
my child; I'm sure there is, though he won't own it. He has lost his
appetite--had a headache last night.' 'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' says
I; 'wish you'd think more of yourself.'

"These mothers are silly, anxious, poor creatures. Nater, sir,
Nater--wonderful thing--Nater!--Here we are."

And the apothecary knocked at the private door of a milliner and
hosier's shop.

CHAPTER X.

"Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished."--Titus Andronicus.

As might be expected, the excitement and fatigue of Catherine's journey
to N---- had considerably accelerated the progress of disease. And when
she reached home, and looked round the cheerless rooms all solitary, all
hushed--Sidney gone, gone from her for ever, she felt, indeed, as if
the last reed on which she had leaned was broken, and her business upon
earth was done. Catherine was not condemned to absolute poverty--the
poverty which grinds and gnaws, the poverty of rags and famine. She