'She can't hear you.'
'Oh, she must hear me! Liza! Liza!'
He sank on his knees by the bedside.
They all remained silent: Liza lying stiller than ever, her breast unmoved by the feeble respiration, Jim looking at her very mournfully; the doctor grave, with his fingers on the pulse. The two women looked at Jim.
'Fancy it bein' 'im!' said Mrs. Kemp. 'Strike me lucky, ain't 'e a sight!'
'You 'ave got 'er insured, Mrs. Kemp?' asked the midwife. She could bear the silence no longer.
'Trust me fur thet!' replied the good lady. 'I've 'ad 'er insured ever since she was born. Why, only the other dy I was sayin' ter myself thet all thet money 'ad been wisted, but you see it wasn't; yer never know yer luck, you see!'
'Quite right, Mrs. Kemp; I'm a rare one for insurin'. It's a great thing. I've always insured all my children.'
'The way I look on it is this,' said Mrs. Kemp—'wotever yer do when they're alive, an' we all know as children is very tryin' sometimes, you should give them a good funeral when they dies. Thet's my motto, an' I've always acted up to it.'
'Do you deal with Mr. Stearman?' asked Mrs. Hodges.