"That will do very right and proper, my dear," answered Faith. "Don't you think no more about it. A just and righteous will I'm sure." But Jane had left the room and her father observed it. "Have that woman anything against?" he asked. "No, no--a very just and righteous will," repeated his wife soothingly. "I could wish you'd trusted me with the capital, father; but there--I'm content." "I put you first, Faith." "I've put you first for five and twenty years." "You ban't content?" "Well content. Rest now. Us'll go and leave you with Dinah Waycott." She tried to resist using Dinah's surname, but could not. Then she left the room. "I've done what I thought was my duty, John," said Mr. Bamsey. "You've never done less. I'm very willing that Dinah should share. So's mother I'm sure." "Try and get a bit of sleep now, my old dear," said Dinah. "And thank you dearly--dearly for thinking on me; but--no matter, you get off if you can. Will you drink?" He nodded and she gave him some warm milk. "I'll drop the blind," she said and did so. In her thoughts was already the determination to forego any legacy under any circumstances. She longed to tell Jane that she meant to do so. Mr. Bamsey shut his eyes and presently dozed. The steam kettle made a little chattering in the silence, but the sick man's breathing was the loudest sound in the room. He slept, though Dinah knew that he would not sleep long. To her concern John began talking of what had passed. He proceeded in undertones. "Don't think I don't approve what father's done. I do; and I wish to God you'd take two-thirds--mine as well as your own--in fulness of time. Which you would do, Dinah, if you came to me. Why can't you see it?" "Why can't you, John?" "What is there for me to see? Nothing, but that you don't know your own mind. Haven't I been patient enough, waiting for you to make it up? What's the good of going on saying you don't love me, when you know I've got love enough for me and you both? Can't you trust me? Can't you judge the size of what I feel for you, by the line I've took for very near a year? You loved me well enough back-along, and what did I ever do to choke you off? You can't tell me, because you don't know. Nobody knows. You bide here, and you understand I'm not changed and won't be blown away by all the rumours and lies on people's tongues; and you can let me live on in hell--for what? You don't know If you had a reason, you'd be just enough to grant I ought to hear it." "Don't say that, Johnny. You never asked me for a reason more than I gave you from the first. I told you on New Bridge that I was bitter sorry, but I found my feeling for you was not the sort of love that can make a woman marry a man. And that was the sole reason then. And that reason is as good now as ever it was."