She spoke slowly, but clearly.  John scratched his head.  His complexion had evidently been very fair.  It was still fresh and pink, and the full cheek hung a little over the jaw.  The mouth was shrewd, but its expression was oddly contradicted by the eyes, which had on the whole a childish, weak look.

’I think yer must leave it to me, ‘Liza,’ he said at last.  ’I’ll do all for the best.’

‘No—­yer’ll not, John,’ said the dying voice.  ’You’d a done a many stupid things—­if I ’adn’t stopped yer.  An I’m a-goin.  You’ll never leave it wi Bessie?’

’An who ’ud yer ’ave me leave it with?  Ain’t Bessie my own sister’s child?’

An emaciated hand stole out of the bedclothes and fastened feebly on his arm.

’If yer do, John, yer’ll repent it.  Yer never were a good one at judgin folk.  Yer doan’t consider nothin—­an I’m a-goin.  Leave it with Saunders, John.’

There was a pause.

Then John said, with an obstinate look, ’Saunders ’as never been a friend o’ mine, since ‘ee did me out o’ that bit o’ business with Missus Moulsey.  An I don’t mean to go makin friends with him again.’

Eliza withdrew her hand with a long sigh, and her eyelids closed.  A fit of coughing shook her; she had to be lifted in bed, and it left her gasping and deathly.  John was sorely troubled, and not only for himself.  When she was more at ease again, he stooped to her and put his mouth to her ear.

’’Liza, don’t yer think no more about it.  Did Mr. Drew read to yer?  Are yer comfortable in yer mind?’

She made a sign of assent, which showed, however, no great interest in the subject.  There was silence for a long time.  Louisa was getting supper downstairs.  John, oppressed by the heat of the room, and tired by his day’s work, had almost fallen asleep in his chair when the old woman spoke again.

’John—­what ‘ud you think o’ Mary Anne Waller!’

The whisper was still human and eager.

John roused himself, and could not help an astonished laugh.

’Why, whatever put Mary Anne into your head, ’Liza?  Yer never thought anythink o’ Mary Anne—­no more than me.’

Eliza’s eyes wandered round the room.

‘P’raps—­’ she said, then stopped, and could say no more.  She seemed to become unconscious, and John went to call for Louisa.

In the middle of the night John woke with a start, and sat up to listen.  Not a sound—­but they would have called him if the end had come.  He could not rest, however, and presently he huddled on some clothes and went to listen at Eliza’s door.  It was ajar, and hearing nothing he pushed it open.

Poor Eliza lay in her agony, unconscious, and breathing heavily.  Beside her sat the widow, Mary Anne Waller, and Louisa, motionless too, their heads bent.  There was an end of candle in a basin behind the bed, which threw circles of wavering light over the coarse whitewash of the roof and on the cards and faded photographs above the tiny mantelpiece.