t 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 bed-clothes 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'r'aps----" 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 thre