"None but his nephew, Mr. Jonas," returned the girl. "I'll go there directly, and tell him."
"Your father seems in bad health?" observed Mr. Adams, as he quitted the room, and proceeded to descend the stairs.
"Yes; he has been ill a long time," she replied, with a sad countenance; "and nobody seems to know what's the matter with him."
"Have you had any advice for him," inquired the apothecary.
"Oh, yes, a great deal, when first he was ill; but nobody did him any good."
By this time they had reached the bottom of the stairs; and Mr. Adams, who now led the van, instead of going out of the street door, turned into the parlor again.
"Well, sir," said he, addressing Lane, "this poor gentleman is dead. I should have called in somebody else had I earlier known who he was; but it would have been useless, life must have been extinct half an hour before I was summoned. Why did you not send for me sooner?"
"I was out," replied the girl, answering the question that had been addressed to her father. "Mr. Aldridge had sent me away for something, and when I returned I found him on the floor, and my father almost fainting. It was a dreadful shock for him, being so ill."
"How did it happen?" inquired Mr. Adams, again addressing Lane.
A convulsion passed over the sick man's face, and his lip quivered as he answered in a low sepulchral tone. "He was sitting on that chair, talking about—about his nephews, when he suddenly stopped speaking, and fell forward. I started up, and placed my hands against his breast to save him, and then he fell backward upon the floor."