She hurried on, and soon found the street where she had taken his lodging.  At the corner of it was, as is too usual in London streets, a public house, about which more than the usual number of disreputable idlers were hanging.  There were also one or two policemen, who were ordering the little crowd to give way to a group of twelve men, coming out.

“What is that?” asked Elizabeth.

“Coroner’s inquest; jury proceeding to view the body.”

Elizabeth, who had never come into contact with any thing of the sort, stood aside with a sense of awe, to let the little procession pass, and then followed up the street.

It stopped; oh no! not at that door!  But it was; there was no mistaking the number, nor the drawn-down blind in the upper room—­Tom’s room.

“Who is dead?” she asked, in a whisper that made the policeman stare.

“Oh! nobody particular; a young man, found dead in his bed; supposed to be a case of consumption; verdict will probably be, ’Died by the visitation of God!’ "

Ay, that familiar phrase, our English law’s solemn recognition of our national religious feeling, was true.  God had “visited” poor Tom; he suffered no more.

Elizabeth leaned against the door-way, and saw the twelve jurymen go up stairs with a clatter of feet, and come down again, one after the other, less noisily, and some of them looking grave.  Nobody took any notice of her, until the lodging house mistress appeared.

“Oh, here she is, gentlemen.  This is the young woman as saw him last alive.  She’ll give her evidence.  She’ll tell you I’m not a bit to blame.”

And pulling Elizabeth after her, the landlady burst into a torrent of explanation; how she had done her very best for the poor fellow; how she listened at his door several times during the first day, and heard him cough, that is, she thought she had, but toward night all was so very quiet; and there having come a letter by post, she thought she would take it up to him.

“And I went in, gentlemen, and I declare, upon my oath, I found him lying just as he is now, and as cold as a stone.”

“Let me pass; I’m a doctor,” said somebody behind; a young man, very shabbily dressed, with a large beard.  He pushed aside the landlady and Elizabeth, till he saw the latter’s face.

“Give that young woman a chair and a glass of water, will you?” he called out; and his authoritative manner impressed the jurymen, who gathered around him, ready and eager to hear any thing he could say.

He gave his name as John Smith, druggist’s assistant; said that the young man who lodged up stairs, whose death he had only just heard of, had been his patient for some months, and was in the last stage of consumption.  He had no doubt the death had ensued from perfectly natural causes, as he explained in such technical language as completely to overpower the jury, and satisfy them accordingly.  They quitted the parlor, and proceeded to the public house, where, after a brief consultation, they delivered their verdict, as the astute policeman had foretold, “Died by the visitation of God;” took pipes and brandy all round at the bar, and then adjourned to their several homes, gratified at having done their duty to their country.