I took the paper from him, and looked at it.
It was an ordinary prescription for a tonic mixture. I looked first at the doctor’s signature; it was the name of a perfectly obscure person in the profession. Below it was written the name of the patient for whom the medicine had been prescribed. I started as I read it. The name was “Mrs. Brand.”
The idea instantly struck me that this (so far as sound went, at any rate) was the English equivalent of Van Brandt.
“Do you know the lady who sent you for the medicine?” I asked.
“Oh yes, sir! She lodges with mother—and she owes for rent. I have done everything she told me, except getting the physic. I’ve pawned her ring, and I’ve bought the bread and butter and eggs, and I’ve taken care of the change. Mother looks to the change for her rent. It isn’t my fault, sir, that I’ve lost myself. I am but ten years old—and all the chemists’ shops are shut up!”
Here my little friend’s sense of his unmerited misfortunes overpowered him, and he began to cry.
“Don’t cry, my man!” I said; “I’ll help you. Tell me something more about the lady first. Is she alone?”
“She’s got her little girl with her, sir.”
My heart quickened its beat. The boy’s answer reminded me of that other little girl whom my mother had once seen.
“Is the lady’s husband with her?” I asked next.