ished himself with several small packets of simples, a few
pots of ointment, one or two phials, and a case of surgical instruments,
he told Leonard he was ready to attend him.

"We will go round by Warwick-lane," he added. "I must call upon Chowles,
the coffin-maker. It will not detain us a moment; and I have an order to
give him."

The mention of this name brought to Leonard's mind the hideous attendant
on the dead-cart, and he had no doubt he was the person in question. It
did not become him, however, to make a remark, and they set out.

Mounting Addle-hill, and threading Ave-Maria-lane, they entered
Warwick-lane, and about half-way up the latter thoroughfare, the doctor
stopped before a shop, bearing on its immense projecting sign the
representation of a coffin lying in state, and covered with scutcheons,
underneath which was written, "ANSELM CHOWLES, COFFIN-MAKER."

"I do not think you will find Mr. Chowles at home," observed Leonard:
"for I saw him with the dead-cart not half an hour ago."

"Very likely," returned the doctor; "but I shall see one of his men. The
coffin-maker's business is now carried on in the night time," he added,
with a sigh; "and he drives a flourishing trade. These sad times will
make his fortune."

As he spoke, he rapped with his cane at the door, which, after a little
delay, was opened by a young man in a carpenter's dress, with a hammer
in his hand. On seeing who it was, this person exhibited great
confusion, and would have retired; but the doctor, pushing him aside,
asked for his master.

"You cannot see him just now, sir," replied the other, evidently
considerably embarrassed. "He is just come home greatly fatigued, and is
about to retire to rest."

"No matter," returned the doctor, entering a room, in which three or
four other men were at work, hastily finishing coffins; "I _must_ see
him."

No further opposition being offered, Hodges, followed by the apprentice,
marched towards an inner room. Just as he reached the door, a burst of
loud laughter, evidently proceeding from a numerous party, arose from
within, and a harsh voice was heard chanting the following strains:

SONG OF THE PLAGUE.
To others the Plague a foe may be,
To me 'tis a friend--not an enemy;
My coffins and coffers alike it fills,
And the richer I grow the more it kills.
_Drink the Plague! Drink the Plague!_

For months, for years, may it spend its rage
On lusty manhood and trembling age;