"This must be it," said one, as her eyes fell upon the closed blinds.
"Yes," returned the other; "that must be it."
So they passed in at the little gate and knocked softly at the shabby door.
"Poor fellow!" said one, with a glance at the bit of garden before the bow window, "his doing, evidently; there's not another garden in the street like it."
"No. And what pains he must have taken with it. Poor fellow!" echoed the other.
There was a moment's scuffle within the house, the sound of loudly-whispering voices; then a heavy footstep, and the door was opened by a stout, elderly person in a shabby black gown and white apron--a person who was unmistakably a nurse. She curtsied as she saw the ladies, and the one who had spoken last addressed her.
"We heard early this morning. I see the sad news is too true," she began.
"Yes'm," shaking her head. "He went off quite quiet about ten o'clock last night. Ah, I've seen a-many, but I never saw a more peaceful end--never!"
The two ladies each made a murmur of sympathy.
"And the little girl?" said one of them.