"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?"