'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.