Between the house and the pavement there was a small garden, a very humble attempt at a garden, with a rockery in one corner and a raised bed in the middle. It was a noisy street, though it was not a thoroughfare, for on that hot, sultry day the doors and windows were all open and the children were all playing about pavements and road, caring little for the heat and dust, screaming, laughing, shouting, crying, as children will, except when they found themselves within reach of the house which I have described; then their voices were hushed, their tones sobered; then they stood to gaze up at the closed blinds which beat now and then against the open windows, as if a door had been opened and allowed a draught of air to sweep through the house; then one little maid of ten years old or so lifted a warning finger to check a lesser child, upon whom the fear and knowledge of death had not yet fallen. "Hush--sh! Don’t make a noise, Annie," she said. "Mr. Gray is dead." The younger child, Annie, ceased her laughter, turning from the closed house to stare at two ladies who came slowly down the street, looking from side to side as if they sought one of the houses in particular. "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. "Well, mum, she do fret a good bit," replied the nurse pityingly. "Poor little thing! We have brought some fruit and some other little things," said the lady, handing a basket to the nurse.