en 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 ago