“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.