“Yes!” still feeling in his pockets, and looking over their contents: “it’s all over with poor Barkis, I am afraid. I saw a little apothecary there⁠—surgeon, or whatever he is⁠—who brought your worship into the world. He was mighty learned about the case, to me; but the upshot of his opinion was, that the carrier was making his last journey rather fast.⁠—Put your hand into the breast pocket of my greatcoat on the chair yonder, and I think you’ll find the letter. Is it there?”

“Here it is!” said I.

“That’s right!”

It was from Peggotty; something less legible than usual, and brief. It informed me of her husband’s hopeless state, and hinted at his being “a little nearer” than heretofore, and consequently more difficult to manage for his own comfort. It said nothing of her weariness and watching, and praised him highly. It was written with a plain, unaffected, homely piety that I knew to be genuine, and ended with “my duty to my ever darling”⁠—meaning myself.