Here a thin boy, with very short coat-sleeves, and very large hands, burst into the room with his mouth open. "Sir—Mr. Perkins—sir!"
"I know—I know-coming. Mrs. Plummer or Mrs. Everat?"
"No, sir; it be the poor lady at Mrs. Lacy's; she be taken desperate. Mrs. Lacy's girl has just been over to the shop, and made me run here 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."