But he suffered no pain, and his wits were bright to the end.
This evening the faint whistle of his voice was fainter than ever, and she had to bend very low to catch his gasping words.

He lay propped up on the pillows, with a red scarf tied round the withered scrag of his throat, and his spotless bed freshly arrayed by his mate's mother, who lived with them and "did for" both.
"They du zay as Master Peter be _carting_ of 'ee, Miss Zairy," he whispered.

"Be it tru ?" "Yes, Jack dear, it's true.

Are you glad ?" "I be glad if yu thinks yu'll git 'un," wheezed poor Jack.

"'Twude be a turble gude job var 'ee tu git a yusband.