“You’ll make yourself ill,” said Miss Betsey, “and you know that will not be good either for you or for my goddaughter. Come! You mustn’t do it!”

This argument had some share in quieting my mother, though her increasing indisposition had a larger one. There was an interval of silence, only broken by Miss Betsey’s occasionally ejaculating “Ha!” as she sat with her feet upon the fender.

“David had bought an annuity for himself with his money, I know,” said she, by and by. “What did he do for you?”

“ Mr. Copperfield,” said my mother, answering with some difficulty, “was so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part of it to me.”

“How much?” asked Miss Betsey.

“A hundred and five pounds a year,” said my mother.