Oliver Twist

Charles Dickens

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CHAPTER I

TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVERTWIST WAS BORNAND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTEND-ING HIS BIRTH

Among other public buildings in a certaintown, which for many reasons it will be pru-dent to refrain from mentioning, and to which Iwill assign no fictitious name, there is one an-ciently common to most towns, great or small:to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhousewas born; on a day and date which I need nottrouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can beof no possible consequence to the reader, in thisstage of the business at all events; the item ofmortality whose name is prefixed to the head ofthis chapter.

For a long time after it was ushered into thisworld of sorrow and trouble, by the parish sur-

geon, it remained a matter of considerabledoubt whether the child would survive to bearany name at all; in which case it is somewhatmore than probable that these memoirs wouldnever have appeared; or, if they had, that beingcomprised within a couple of pages, theywould have possessed the inestimable merit ofbeing the most concise and faithful specimen ofbiography, extant in the literature of any age orcountry.

Although I am not disposed to maintain thatthe being born in a workhouse, is in itself themost fortunate and enviable circumstance thatcan possibly befall a human being, I do mean tosay that in this particular instance, it was thebest thing for Oliver Twist that could by possi-bility have occurred. The fact is, that there wasconsiderable difficulty in inducing Oliver totake upon himself the office of respiration,—atroublesome practice, but one which customhas rendered necessary to our easy existence;

and for some time he lay gasping on a littleflock mattress, rather unequally poised be-tween this world and the next: the balance be-ing decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if,during this brief period, Oliver had been sur-rounded by careful grandmothers, anxiousaunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of pro-found wisdom, he would most inevitably andindubitably have been killed in no time. Therebeing nobody by, however, but a pauper oldwoman, who was rendered rather misty by anunwonted allowance of beer; and a parish sur-geon who did such matters by contract; Oliverand Nature fought out the point between them.The result was, that, after a few struggles,Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded toadvertise to the inmates of the workhouse thefact of a new burden having been imposedupon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry ascould reasonably have been expected from amale infant who had not been possessed of thatvery useful appendage, a voice, for a much

longer space of time than three minutes and aquarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free andproper action of his lungs, the patchwork cov-erlet which was carelessly flung over the ironbedstead, rustled; the pale face of a youngwoman was raised feebly from the pillow; anda faint voice imperfectly articulated the words,'Let me see the child, and die.'

The surgeon had been sitting with his faceturned towards the fire: giving the palms of hishands a warm and a rub alternately. As theyoung woman spoke, he rose, and advancing tothe bed's head, said, with more kindness thanmight have been expected of him:

'Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.'

'Lor bless her dear heart, no!' interposed thenurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green

glass bottle, the contents of which she had beentasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.

'Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived aslong as I have, sir, and had thirteen children ofher own, and all on 'em dead except two, andthem in the wurkus with me, she'll know betterthan to take on in that way, bless her dearheart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's adear young lamb do.'

Apparently this consolatory perspective of amother's prospects failed in producing its dueeffect. The patient shook her head, andstretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She im-printed her cold white lips passionately on itsforehead; passed her hands over her face;gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back—anddied. They chafed her breast, hands, and tem-ples; but the blood had stopped forever. They

talked of hope and comfort. They had beenstrangers too long.

'It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!' said the sur-geon at last.

'Ah, poor dear, so it is!' said the nurse, pickingup the cork of the green bottle, which hadfallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to takeup the child. 'Poor dear!'

'You needn't mind sending up to me, if thechild cries, nurse,' said the surgeon, putting onhis gloves with great deliberation. 'It's verylikely it will be troublesome. Give it a littlegruel if it is.' He put on his hat, and, pausing bythe bed-side on his way to the door, added,'She was a good-looking girl, too; where didshe come from?'

'She was brought here last night,' replied theold woman, 'by the overseer's order. She wasfound lying in the street. She had walked some

distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; butwhere she came from, or where she was goingto, nobody knows.'

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raisedthe left hand. 'The old story,' he said, shakinghis head: 'no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!'

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner;and the nurse, having once more applied her-self to the green bottle, sat down on a low chairbefore the fire, and proceeded to dress the in-fant.

What an excellent example of the power ofdress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in theblanket which had hitherto formed his onlycovering, he might have been the child of anobleman or a beggar; it would have been hardfor the haughtiest stranger to have assignedhim his proper station in society. But now thathe was enveloped in the old calico robes which

had grown yellow in the same service, he wasbadged and ticketed, and fell into his place atonce—a parish child—the orphan of a work-house—the humble, half-starved drudge—to becuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have knownthat he was an orphan, left to the tender mer-cies of church-wardens and overseers, perhapshe would have cried the louder.

CHAPTER II

TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH,EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was thevictim of a systematic course of treachery anddeception. He was brought up by hand. The

hungry and destitute situation of the infantorphan was duly reported by the workhouseauthorities to the parish authorities. The parishauthorities inquired with dignity of the work-house authorities, whether there was no femalethen domiciled in 'the house' who was in asituation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consola-tion and nourishment of which he stood inneed. The workhouse authorities replied withhumility, that there was not. Upon this, theparish authorities magnanimously and hu-manely resolved, that Oliver should be'farmed,' or, in other words, that he should bedispatched to a branch-workhouse some threemiles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenileoffenders against the poor-laws, rolled aboutthe floor all day, without the inconvenience oftoo much food or too much clothing, under theparental superintendence of an elderly female,who received the culprits at and for the consid-eration of sevenpence-halfpenny per smallhead per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth

per week is a good round diet for a child; agreat deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stom-ach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderlyfemale was a woman of wisdom and experi-ence; she knew what was good for children;and she had a very accurate perception of whatwas good for herself. So, she appropriated thegreater part of the weekly stipend to her ownuse, and consigned the rising parochial genera-tion to even a shorter allowance than wasoriginally provided for them. Thereby findingin the lowest depth a deeper still; and provingherself a very great experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experi-mental philosopher who had a great theoryabout a horse being able to live without eating,and who demonstrated it so well, that he hadgot his own horse down to a straw a day, andwould unquestionably have rendered him avery spirited and rampacious animal on noth-

ing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twentyhours before he was to have had his first com-fortable bait of air. Unfortunately for, the ex-perimental philosophy of the female to whoseprotecting care Oliver Twist was deliveredover, a similar result usually attended the op-eration of her system; for at the very momentwhen the child had contrived to exist upon thesmallest possible portion of the weakest possi-ble food, it did perversely happen in eight anda half cases out of ten, either that it sickenedfrom want and cold, or fell into the fire fromneglect, or got half-smothered by accident; inany one of which cases, the miserable little be-ing was usually summoned into another world,and there gathered to the fathers it had neverknown in this.

Occasionally, when there was some more thanusually interesting inquest upon a parish childwho had been overlooked in turning up a bed-stead, or inadvertently scalded to death when

there happened to be a washing—though thelatter accident was very scarce, anything ap-proaching to a washing being of rare occur-rence in the farm—the jury would take it intotheir heads to ask troublesome questions, or theparishioners would rebelliously affix their sig-natures to a remonstrance. But these imperti-nences were speedily checked by the evidenceof the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle;the former of whom had always opened thebody and found nothing inside (which wasvery probable indeed), and the latter of whominvariably swore whatever the parish wanted;which was very self-devotional. Besides, theboard made periodical pilgrimages to the farm,and always sent the beadle the day before, tosay they were going. The children were neatand clean to behold, when they went; and whatmore would the people have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farm-ing would produce any very extraordinary or

luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birthdayfound him a pale thin child, somewhat diminu-tive in stature, and decidedly small in circum-ference. But nature or inheritance had im-planted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast.It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks tothe spare diet of the establishment; and perhapsto this circumstance may be attributed his hav-ing any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may,however, it was his ninth birthday; and he waskeeping it in the coal-cellar with a select partyof two other young gentleman, who, after par-ticipating with him in a sound thrashing, hadbeen locked up for atrociously presuming to behungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of thehouse, was unexpectedly startled by the appari-tion of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undothe wicket of the garden-gate.

'Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble,sir?' said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out ofthe window in well-affected ecstasies of joy.

'(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats up-stairs, and wash 'em directly.)—My heart alive!Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!'

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a chol-eric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gavethe little wicket a tremendous shake, and thenbestowed upon it a kick which could haveemanated from no leg but a beadle's.

'Lor, only think,' said Mrs. Mann, runningout,—for the three boys had been removed bythis time,—'only think of that! That I shouldhave forgotten that the gate was bolted on theinside, on account of them dear children! Walkin sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.'

Although this invitation was accompanied witha curtsey that might have softened the heart ofa church-warden, it by no means mollified thebeadle.

'Do you think this respectful or proper conduct,Mrs. Mann,' inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping hiscane, 'to keep the parish officers a waiting atyour garden-gate, when they come here uponporochial business with the porochial orphans?Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as Imay say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendi-ary?'

'I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a tellingone or two of the dear children as is so fond ofyou, that it was you a coming,' replied Mrs.Mann with great humility.

Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratoricalpowers and his importance. He had displayedthe one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.

'Well, well, Mrs. Mann,' he replied in a calmertone; 'it may be as you say; it may be. Lead theway in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, andhave something to say.'

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small par-lour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him;and officiously deposited his cocked hat andcane on the table before him. Mr. Bumblewiped from his forehead the perspirationwhich his walk had engendered, glanced com-placently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, hesmiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumblesmiled.

'Now don't you be offended at what I'm a goingto say,' observed Mrs. Mann, with captivatingsweetness. 'You've had a long walk, you know,or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take alittle drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?'

'Not a drop. Nor a drop,' said Mr. Bumble,waving his right hand in a dignified, but placidmanner.

'I think you will,' said Mrs. Mann, who hadnoticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture

that had accompanied it. 'Just a leetle drop,with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.'

Mr. Bumble coughed.

'Now, just a leetle drop,' said Mrs. Mann per-suasively.

'What is it?' inquired the beadle.

'Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of inthe house, to put into the blessed infants' Daffy,when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble,' replied Mrs.Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, andtook down a bottle and glass. 'It's gin. I'll notdeceive you, Mr. B. It's gin.'

'Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?'inquired Bumble, following with his eyes theinteresting process of mixing.

'Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is,' repliedthe nurse. 'I couldn't see 'em suffer before myvery eyes, you know sir.'

'No'; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; 'no, youcould not. You are a humane woman, Mrs.Mann.' (Here she set down the glass.) 'I shalltake a early opportunity of mentioning it to theboard, Mrs. Mann.' (He drew it towards him.)'You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.' (He stirredthe gin-and-water.) 'I—I drink your health withcheerfulness, Mrs. Mann'; and he swallowedhalf of it.

'And now about business,' said the beadle, tak-ing out a leathern pocket-book. 'The child thatwas half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year oldto-day.'

'Bless him!' interposed Mrs. Mann, inflamingher left eye with the corner of her apron.

'And notwithstanding a offered reward of tenpound, which was afterwards increased totwenty pound. Notwithstanding the most su-perlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral exertionson the part of this parish,' said Bumble, 'we

have never been able to discover who is hisfather, or what was his mother's settlement,name, or condition.'

Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment;but added, after a moment's reflection, 'Howcomes he to have any name at all, then?'

The beadle drew himself up with great pride,and said, 'I inwented it.'

'You, Mr. Bumble!'

'I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in al-phabetical order. The last was a S,—Swubble, Inamed him. This was a T,—Twist, I named him.The next one comes will be Unwin, and thenext Vilkins. I have got names ready made tothe end of the alphabet, and all the waythrough it again, when we come to Z.'

'Why, you're quite a literary character, sir!' saidMrs. Mann.

'Well, well,' said the beadle, evidently gratifiedwith the compliment; 'perhaps I may be. Per-haps I may be, Mrs. Mann.' He finished the gin-and-water, and added, 'Oliver being now tooold to remain here, the board have determinedto have him back into the house. I have comeout myself to take him there. So let me see himat once.'

'I'll fetch him directly,' said Mrs. Mann, leavingthe room for that purpose. Oliver, having hadby this time as much of the outer coat of dirtwhich encrusted his face and hands, removed,as could be scrubbed off in one washing, wasled into the room by his benevolent protectress.

'Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,' saidMrs. Mann.

Oliver made a bow, which was divided be-tween the beadle on the chair, and the cockedhat on the table.

'Will you go along with me, Oliver?' said Mr.Bumble, in a majestic voice.

Oliver was about to say that he would go alongwith anybody with great readiness, when,glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs.Mann, who had got behind the beadle's chair,and was shaking her fist at him with a furiouscountenance. He took the hint at once, for thefist had been too often impressed upon hisbody not to be deeply impressed upon his rec-ollection.

'Will she go with me?' inquired poor Oliver.

'No, she can't,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'But she'llcome and see you sometimes.'

This was no very great consolation to the child.Young as he was, however, he had senseenough to make a feint of feeling great regret atgoing away. It was no very difficult matter forthe boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and

recent ill-usage are great assistants if you wantto cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed.Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, andwhat Oliver wanted a great deal more, a pieceof bread and butter, less he should seem toohungry when he got to the workhouse. Withthe slice of bread in his hand, and the littlebrown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver wasthen led away by Mr. Bumble from thewretched home where one kind word or lookhad never lighted the gloom of his infant years.And yet he burst into an agony of childishgrief, as the cottage-gate closed after him.Wretched as were the little companions in mis-ery he was leaving behind, they were the onlyfriends he had ever known; and a sense of hisloneliness in the great wide world, sank intothe child's heart for the first time.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; littleOliver, firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trot-ted beside him, inquiring at the end of every

quarter of a mile whether they were 'nearlythere.' To these interrogations Mr. Bumble re-turned very brief and snappish replies; for thetemporary blandness which gin-and-waterawakens in some bosoms had by this timeevaporated; and he was once again a beadle.

Oliver had not been within the walls of theworkhouse a quarter of an hour, and hadscarcely completed the demolition of a secondslice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who hadhanded him over to the care of an old woman,returned; and, telling him it was a board night,informed him that the board had said he was toappear before it forthwith.

Not having a very clearly defined notion ofwhat a live board was, Oliver was rather as-tounded by this intelligence, and was not quitecertain whether he ought to laugh or cry. Hehad no time to think about the matter, how-ever; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on thehead, with his cane, to wake him up: and an-

other on the back to make him lively: and bid-ding him to follow, conducted him into a largewhite-washed room, where eight or ten fat gen-tlemen were sitting round a table. At the top ofthe table, seated in an arm-chair rather higherthan the rest, was a particularly fat gentlemanwith a very round, red face.

'Bow to the board,' said Bumble. Oliverbrushed away two or three tears that were lin-gering in his eyes; and seeing no board but thetable, fortunately bowed to that.

'What's your name, boy?' said the gentleman inthe high chair.

Oliver was frightened at the sight of so manygentlemen, which made him tremble: and thebeadle gave him another tap behind, whichmade him cry. These two causes made himanswer in a very low and hesitating voice;whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoatsaid he was a fool. Which was a capital way of

raising his spirits, and putting him quite at hisease.

'Boy,' said the gentleman in the high chair, 'lis-ten to me. You know you're an orphan, I sup-pose?'

'What's that, sir?' inquired poor Oliver.

'The boy is a fool—I thought he was,' said thegentleman in the white waistcoat.

'Hush!' said the gentleman who had spokenfirst. 'You know you've got no father or mother,and that you were brought up by the parish,don't you?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

'What are you crying for?' inquired the gentle-man in the white waistcoat. And to be sure itwas very extraordinary. What could the boy becrying for?

'I hope you say your prayers every night,' saidanother gentleman in a gruff voice; 'and prayfor the people who feed you, and take care ofyou—like a Christian.'

'Yes, sir,' stammered the boy. The gentlemanwho spoke last was unconsciously right. Itwould have been very like a Christian, and amarvellously good Christian too, if Oliver hadprayed for the people who fed and took care ofhim. But he hadn't, because nobody had taughthim.

'Well! You have come here to be educated, andtaught a useful trade,' said the red-faced gen-tleman in the high chair.

'So you'll begin to pick oakum to-morrowmorning at six o'clock,' added the surly one inthe white waistcoat.

For the combination of both these blessings inthe one simple process of picking oakum,

Oliver bowed low by the direction of the bea-dle, and was then hurried away to a largeward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbedhimself to sleep. What a novel illustration of thetender laws of England! They let the paupersgo to sleep!

Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleep-ing in happy unconsciousness of all aroundhim, that the board had that very day arrived ata decision which would exercise the most ma-terial influence over all his future fortunes. Butthey had. And this was it:

The members of this board were very sage,deep, philosophical men; and when they cameto turn their attention to the workhouse, theyfound out at once, what ordinary folks wouldnever have discovered—the poor people likedit! It was a regular place of public entertain-ment for the poorer classes; a tavern wherethere was nothing to pay; a public breakfast,dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a

brick and mortar elysium, where it was all playand no work. 'Oho!' said the board, lookingvery knowing; 'we are the fellows to set this torights; we'll stop it all, in no time.' So, they es-tablished the rule, that all poor people shouldhave the alternative (for they would compelnobody, not they), of being starved by a grad-ual process in the house, or by a quick one outof it. With this view, they contracted with thewater-works to lay on an unlimited supply ofwater; and with a corn-factor to supply peri-odically small quantities of oatmeal; and issuedthree meals of thin gruel a day, with an oniontwice a week, and half a roll of Sundays. Theymade a great many other wise and humaneregulations, having reference to the ladies,which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly un-dertook to divorce poor married people, in con-sequence of the great expense of a suit in Doc-tors' Commons; and, instead of compelling aman to support his family, as they had thereto-fore done, took his family away from him, and

made him a bachelor! There is no saying howmany applicants for relief, under these last twoheads, might have started up in all classes ofsociety, if it had not been coupled with theworkhouse; but the board were long-headedmen, and had provided for this difficulty. Therelief was inseparable from the workhouse andthe gruel; and that frightened people.

For the first six months after Oliver Twist wasremoved, the system was in full operation. Itwas rather expensive at first, in consequence ofthe increase in the undertaker's bill, and thenecessity of taking in the clothes of all the pau-pers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted,shrunken forms, after a week or two's gruel.But the number of workhouse inmates got thinas well as the paupers; and the board were inecstasies.

The room in which the boys were fed, was alarge stone hall, with a copper at one end: outof which the master, dressed in an apron for the

purpose, and assisted by one or two women,ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festivecomposition each boy had one porringer, andno more—except on occasions of great publicrejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quar-ter of bread besides.

The bowls never wanted washing. The boyspolished them with their spoons till they shoneagain; and when they had performed this op-eration (which never took very long, the spoonsbeing nearly as large as the bowls), they wouldsit staring at the copper, with such eager eyes,as if they could have devoured the very bricksof which it was composed; employing them-selves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingersmost assiduously, with the view of catching upany stray splashes of gruel that might havebeen cast thereon. Boys have generally excel-lent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companionssuffered the tortures of slow starvation forthree months: at last they got so voracious and

wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tallfor his age, and hadn't been used to that sort ofthing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, thatunless he had another basin of gruel per diem,he was afraid he might some night happen toeat the boy who slept next him, who happenedto be a weakly youth of tender age. He had awild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believedhim. A council was held; lots were cast whoshould walk up to the master after supper thatevening, and ask for more; and it fell to OliverTwist.

The evening arrived; the boys took their places.The master, in his cook's uniform, stationedhimself at the copper; his pauper assistantsranged themselves behind him; the gruel wasserved out; and a long grace was said over theshort commons. The gruel disappeared; theboys whispered each other, and winked atOliver; while his next neighbors nudged him.

Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger,and reckless with misery. He rose from the ta-ble; and advancing to the master, basin andspoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at hisown temerity:

'Please, sir, I want some more.'

The master was a fat, healthy man; but heturned very pale. He gazed in stupefied aston-ishment on the small rebel for some seconds,and then clung for support to the copper. Theassistants were paralysed with wonder; theboys with fear.

'What!' said the master at length, in a faintvoice.

'Please, sir,' replied Oliver, 'I want some more.'

The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head withthe ladle; pinioned him in his arm; andshrieked aloud for the beadle.

The board were sitting in solemn conclave,when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room ingreat excitement, and addressing the gentle-man in the high chair, said,

'Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! OliverTwist has asked for more!'

There was a general start. Horror was depictedon every countenance.

'For more!' said Mr. Limbkins. 'Compose your-self, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do Iunderstand that he asked for more, after he hadeaten the supper allotted by the dietary?'

'He did, sir,' replied Bumble.

'That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman inthe white waistcoat. 'I know that boy will behung.'

Nobody controverted the prophetic gentle-man's opinion. An animated discussion took

place. Oliver was ordered into instant confine-ment; and a bill was next morning pasted onthe outside of the gate, offering a reward of fivepounds to anybody who would take OliverTwist off the hands of the parish. In otherwords, five pounds and Oliver Twist were of-fered to any man or woman who wanted anapprentice to any trade, business, or calling.

'I never was more convinced of anything in mylife,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat,as he knocked at the gate and read the bill nextmorning: 'I never was more convinced of any-thing in my life, than I am that that boy willcome to be hung.'

As I purpose to show in the sequel whether thewhite waistcoated gentleman was right or not, Ishould perhaps mar the interest of this narra-tive (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ven-tured to hint just yet, whether the life of OliverTwist had this violent termination or no.

CHAPTER III

RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WASVERY NEAR GETTING A PLACEWHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SI-NECURE

For a week after the commission of the impiousand profane offence of asking for more, Oliverremained a close prisoner in the dark and soli-tary room to which he had been consigned bythe wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears,at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that,if he had entertained a becoming feeling of re-spect for the prediction of the gentleman in thewhite waistcoat, he would have establishedthat sage individual's prophetic character, onceand for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attach-

ing himself to the other. To the performance ofthis feat, however, there was one obstacle:namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being de-cided articles of luxury, had been, for all futuretimes and ages, removed from the noses ofpaupers by the express order of the board, incouncil assembled: solemnly given and pro-nounced under their hands and seals. Therewas a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youthand childishness. He only cried bitterly all day;and, when the long, dismal night came on,spread his little hands before his eyes to shutout the darkness, and crouching in the corner,tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with astart and tremble, and drawing himself closerand closer to the wall, as if to feel even its coldhard surface were a protection in the gloomand loneliness which surrounded him.

Let it not be supposed by the enemies of 'thesystem,' that, during the period of his solitaryincarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of

exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advan-tages of religious consolation. As for exercise, itwas nice cold weather, and he was allowed toperform his ablutions every morning under thepump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr.Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, andcaused a tingling sensation to pervade hisframe, by repeated applications of the cane. Asfor society, he was carried every other day intothe hall where the boys dined, and there socia-bly flogged as a public warning and example.And so for from being denied the advantagesof religious consolation, he was kicked into thesame apartment every evening at prayer-time,and there permitted to listen to, and console hismind with, a general supplication of the boys,containing a special clause, therein inserted byauthority of the board, in which they entreatedto be made good, virtuous, contented, and obe-dient, and to be guarded from the sins andvices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplicationdistinctly set forth to be under the exclusive

patronage and protection of the powers ofwickedness, and an article direct from themanufactory of the very Devil himself.

It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairswere in this auspicious and comfortable state,that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went hisway down the High Street, deeply cogitating inhis mind his ways and means of paying certainarrears of rent, for which his landlord had be-come rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most san-guine estimate of his finances could not raisethem within full five pounds of the desiredamount; and, in a species of arithmetical des-peration, he was alternately cudgelling hisbrains and his donkey, when passing theworkhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on thegate.

'Wo—o!' said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

The donkey was in a state of profound abstrac-tion: wondering, probably, whether he was

destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk ortwo when he had disposed of the two sacks ofsoot with which the little cart was laden; so,without noticing the word of command, hejogged onward.

Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation onthe donkey generally, but more particularly onhis eyes; and, running after him, bestowed ablow on his head, which would inevitably havebeaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catch-ing hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharpwrench, by way of gentle reminder that he wasnot his own master; and by these means turnedhim round. He then gave him another blow onthe head, just to stun him till he came backagain. Having completed these arrangements,he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.

The gentleman with the white waistcoat wasstanding at the gate with his hands behind him,after having delivered himself of some pro-found sentiments in the board-room. Having

witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gam-field and the donkey, he smiled joyously whenthat person came up to read the bill, for he sawat once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sortof master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfieldsmiled, too, as he perused the document; forfive pounds was just the sum he had beenwishing for; and, as to the boy with which itwas encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing whatthe dietary of the workhouse was, well knewhe would be a nice small pattern, just the verything for register stoves. So, he spelt the billthrough again, from beginning to end; andthen, touching his fur cap in token of humility,accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

'This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to'prentis,' said Mr. Gamfield.

'Ay, my man,' said the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat, with a condescending smile. 'Whatof him?'

'If the parish vould like him to learn a rightpleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness,' said Mr. Gamfield, 'I wants a'prentis, and I am ready to take him.'

'Walk in,' said the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered be-hind, to give the donkey another blow on thehead, and another wrench of the jaw, as a cau-tion not to run away in his absence, followedthe gentleman with the white waistcoat into theroom where Oliver had first seen him.

'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limbkins, whenGamfield had again stated his wish.

'Young boys have been smothered in chimneysbefore now,' said another gentleman.

'That's acause they damped the straw aforethey lit it in the chimbley to make 'em comedown again,' said Gamfield; 'that's all smoke,and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all

in making a boy come down, for it only sindshim to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys iswery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, andthere's nothink like a good hot blaze to make'em come down vith a run. It's humane too,gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in thechimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggleto hextricate theirselves.'

The gentleman in the white waistcoat appearedvery much amused by this explanation; but hismirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr.Limbkins. The board then proceeded to con-verse among themselves for a few minutes, butin so low a tone, that the words 'saving of ex-penditure,' 'looked well in the accounts,' 'have aprinted report published,' were alone audible.These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or ac-count of their being very frequently repeatedwith great emphasis.

At length the whispering ceased; and the mem-bers of the board, having resumed their seatsand their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:

'We have considered your proposition, and wedon't approve of it.'

'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat.

'Decidedly not,' added the other members.

As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour underthe slight imputation of having bruised three orfour boys to death already, it occurred to himthat the board had, perhaps, in some unac-countable freak, taken it into their heads thatthis extraneous circumstance ought to influencetheir proceedings. It was very unlike their gen-eral mode of doing business, if they had; butstill, as he had no particular wish to revive therumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, andwalked slowly from the table.

'So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?' saidMr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.

'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's anasty business, we think you ought to takesomething less than the premium we offered.'

Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as,with a quick step, he returned to the table, andsaid,

'What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't betoo hard on a poor man. What'll you give?'

'I should say, three pound ten was plenty,' saidMr. Limbkins.

'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman inthe white waistcoat.

'Come!' said Gamfield; 'say four pound,gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got ridof him for good and all. There!'

'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limbkins,firmly.

'Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men,'urged Gamfield. 'Three pound fifteen.'

'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr.Limbkins.

'You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men,'said Gamfield, wavering.

'Pooh! pooh! nonsense!' said the gentleman inthe white waistcoat. 'He'd be cheap with noth-ing at all, as a premium. Take him, you sillyfellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants thestick, now and then: it'll do him good; and hisboard needn't come very expensive, for he has-n't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!'

Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the facesround the table, and, observing a smile on all ofthem, gradually broke into a smile himself. The

bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at onceinstructed that Oliver Twist and his indentureswere to be conveyed before the magistrate, forsignature and approval, that very afternoon.

In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver,to his excessive astonishment, was releasedfrom bondage, and ordered to put himself intoa clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this veryunusual gymnastic performance, when Mr.Bumble brought him, with his own hands, abasin of gruel, and the holiday allowance oftwo ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tre-mendous sight, Oliver began to cry very pite-ously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the boardmust have determined to kill him for some use-ful purpose, or they never would have begun tofatten him up in that way.

'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat yourfood and be thankful,' said Mr. Bumble, in atone of impressive pomposity. 'You're a goingto be made a 'prentice of, Oliver.'

'A prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.

'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The kind andblessed gentleman which is so many parents toyou, Oliver, when you have none of your own:are a going to 'prentice' you: and to set you upin life, and make a man of you: although theexpense to the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillins—onehundred and forty sixpences!—and all for anaughty orphan which nobody can't love.'

As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, afterdelivering this address in an awful voice, thetears rolled down the poor child's face, and hesobbed bitterly.

'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pom-pously, for it was gratifying to his feelings toobserve the effect his eloquence had produced;'Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs ofyour jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's

a very foolish action, Oliver.' It certainly was,for there was quite enough water in it already.

On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumbleinstructed Oliver that all he would have to do,would be to look very happy, and say, whenthe gentleman asked him if he wanted to beapprenticed, that he should like it very muchindeed; both of which injunctions Oliver prom-ised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw ina gentle hint, that if he failed in either particu-lar, there was no telling what would be done tohim. When they arrived at the office, he wasshut up in a little room by himself, and admon-ished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until hecame back to fetch him.

There the boy remained, with a palpitatingheart, for half an hour. At the expiration ofwhich time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, un-adorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud:

'Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.'As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim andthreatening look, and added, in a low voice,'Mind what I told you, you young rascal!'

Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face atthis somewhat contradictory style of address;but that gentleman prevented his offering anyremark thereupon, by leading him at once intoan adjoining room: the door of which wasopen. It was a large room, with a great win-dow. Behind a desk, sat two old gentlemanwith powdered heads: one of whom was read-ing the newspaper; while the other was perus-ing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spec-tacles, a small piece of parchment which laybefore him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in frontof the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, witha partially washed face, on the other; while twoor three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, werelounging about.

The old gentleman with the spectacles gradu-ally dozed off, over the little bit of parchment;and there was a short pause, after Oliver hadbeen stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of thedesk.

'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bum-ble.

The old gentleman who was reading the news-paper raised his head for a moment, and pulledthe other old gentleman by the sleeve; where-upon, the last-mentioned old gentleman wokeup.

'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman.

'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Bow tothe magistrate, my dear.'

Oliver roused himself, and made his best obei-sance. He had been wondering, with his eyesfixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all

boards were born with that white stuff on theirheads, and were boards from thenceforth onthat account.

'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he'sfond of chimney-sweeping?'

'He doats on it, your worship,' replied Bumble;giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that hehad better not say he didn't.

'And he will be a sweep, will he?' inquired theold gentleman.

'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, yourworship,' replied Bumble.

'And this man that's to be his master—you,sir—you'll treat him well, and feed him, and doall that sort of thing, will you?' said the old gen-tleman.

'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr.Gamfield doggedly.

'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but youlook an honest, open-hearted man,' said the oldgentleman: turning his spectacles in the direc-tion of the candidate for Oliver's premium,whose villainous countenance was a regularstamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistratewas half blind and half childish, so he couldn'treasonably be expected to discern what otherpeople did.

'I hope I am, sir,' said Mr. Gamfield, with anugly leer.

'I have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied theold gentleman: fixing his spectacles morefirmly on his nose, and looking about him forthe inkstand.

It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If theinkstand had been where the old gentleman

thought it was, he would have dipped his peninto it, and signed the indentures, and Oliverwould have been straightway hurried off. But,as it chanced to be immediately under his nose,it followed, as a matter of course, that helooked all over his desk for it, without findingit; and happening in the course of his search tolook straight before him, his gaze encounteredthe pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who,despite all the admonitory looks and pinches ofBumble, was regarding the repulsive counte-nance of his future master, with a mingled ex-pression of horror and fear, too palpable to bemistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.

The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen,and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; whoattempted to take snuff with a cheerful andunconcerned aspect.

'My boy!' said the old gentleman, 'you look paleand alarmed. What is the matter?'

'Stand a little away from him, Beadle,' said theother magistrate: laying aside the paper, andleaning forward with an expression of interest.'Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't beafraid.'

Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his handstogether, prayed that they would order himback to the dark room—that they would starvehim—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send him away with that dreadfulman.

'Well!' said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands andeyes with most impressive solemnity. 'Well! ofall the artful and designing orphans that ever Isee, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.'

'Hold your tongue, Beadle,' said the second oldgentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent tothis compound adjective.

'I beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr. Bumble,incredulous of having heard aright. 'Did yourworship speak to me?'

'Yes. Hold your tongue.'

Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment.A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moralrevolution!

The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell specta-cles looked at his companion, he nodded sig-nificantly.

'We refuse to sanction these indentures,' saidthe old gentleman: tossing aside the piece ofparchment as he spoke.

'I hope,' stammered Mr. Limbkins: 'I hope themagistrates will not form the opinion that theauthorities have been guilty of any improperconduct, on the unsupported testimony of achild.'

'The magistrates are not called upon to pro-nounce any opinion on the matter,' said thesecond old gentleman sharply. 'Take the boyback to the workhouse, and treat him kindly.He seems to want it.'

That same evening, the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat most positively and decidedly af-firmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, butthat he would be drawn and quartered into thebargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head withgloomy mystery, and said he wished he mightcome to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield re-plied, that he wished he might come to him;which, although he agreed with the beadle inmost matters, would seem to be a wish of atotally opposite description.

The next morning, the public were once in-formed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, andthat five pounds would be paid to anybodywho would take possession of him.

CHAPTER IV

OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHERPLACE,MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLICLIFE

In great families, when an advantageous placecannot be obtained, either in possession, rever-sion, remainder, or expectancy, for the youngman who is growing up, it is a very generalcustom to send him to sea. The board, in imita-tion of so wise and salutary an example, tookcounsel together on the expediency of shippingoff Oliver Twist, in some small trading vesselbound to a good unhealthy port. This sug-gested itself as the very best thing that couldpossibly be done with him: the probability be-ing, that the skipper would flog him to death,

in a playful mood, some day after dinner, orwould knock his brains out with an iron bar;both pastimes being, as is pretty generallyknown, very favourite and common recreationsamong gentleman of that class. The more thecase presented itself to the board, in this pointof view, the more manifold the advantages ofthe step appeared; so, they came to the conclu-sion that the only way of providing for Olivereffectually, was to send him to sea without de-lay.

Mr. Bumble had been despatched to makevarious preliminary inquiries, with the view offinding out some captain or other who wanteda cabin-boy without any friends; and was re-turning to the workhouse to communicate theresult of his mission; when he encountered atthe gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry,the parochial undertaker.

Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointedman, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with

darned cotton stockings of the same colour, andshoes to answer. His features were not natu-rally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but hewas in general rather given to professional jo-cosity. His step was elastic, and his face beto-kened inward pleasantry, as he advanced toMr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by thehand.

'I have taken the measure of the two womenthat died last night, Mr. Bumble,' said the un-dertaker.

'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,'said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb andforefinger into the proffered snuff-box of theundertaker: which was an ingenious littlemodel of a patent coffin. 'I say you'll make yourfortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' repeated Mr. Bumble,tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in afriendly manner, with his cane.

'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone whichhalf admitted and half disputed the probabilityof the event. 'The prices allowed by the boardare very small, Mr. Bumble.'

'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with pre-cisely as near an approach to a laugh as a greatofficial ought to indulge in.

Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as ofcourse he ought to be; and laughed a long timewithout cessation. 'Well, well, Mr. Bumble,' hesaid at length, 'there's no denying that, sincethe new system of feeding has come in, the cof-fins are something narrower and more shallowthan they used to be; but we must have someprofit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is anexpensive article, sir; and all the iron handlescome, by canal, from Birmingham.'

'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade hasits drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allow-able.'

'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker;'and if I don't get a profit upon this or that par-ticular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see—he! he! he!'

'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.

'Though I must say,' continued the undertaker,resuming the current of observations which thebeadle had interrupted: 'though I must say, Mr.Bumble, that I have to contend against one verygreat disadvantage: which is, that all the stoutpeople go off the quickest. The people whohave been better off, and have paid rates formany years, are the first to sink when theycome into the house; and let me tell you, Mr.Bumble, that three or four inches over one'scalculation makes a great hole in one's profits:especially when one has a family to provide for,sir.'

As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becomingindignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr.

Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey areflection on the honour of the parish; the lattergentleman thought it advisable to change thesubject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in hismind, he made him his theme.

'By the bye,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't knowanybody who wants a boy, do you? A poro-chial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight;a millstone, as I may say, round the porochialthroat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberalterms?' As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised hiscane to the bill above him, and gave three dis-tinct raps upon the words 'five pounds': whichwere printed thereon in Roman capitals of gi-gantic size.

'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bum-ble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat;'that's just the very thing I wanted to speak toyou about. You know—dear me, what a veryelegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never no-ticed it before.'

'Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle,glancing proudly downwards at the large brassbuttons which embellished his coat. 'The die isthe same as the porochial seal—the Good Sa-maritan healing the sick and bruised man. Theboard presented it to me on Newyear's morn-ing, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember,for the first time, to attend the inquest on thatreduced tradesman, who died in a doorway atmidnight.'

'I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jurybrought it in, "Died from exposure to the cold,and want of the common necessaries of life,"didn't they?'

Mr. Bumble nodded.

'And they made it a special verdict, I think,'said the undertaker, 'by adding some words tothe effect, that if the relieving officer had—'

'Tush! Foolery!' interposed the beadle. 'If theboard attended to all the nonsense that igno-rant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do.'

'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they wouldindeed.'

'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his canetightly, as was his wont when working into apassion: 'juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovel-ling wretches.'

'So they are,' said the undertaker.

'They haven't no more philosophy nor politicaleconomy about 'em than that,' said the beadle,snapping his fingers contemptuously.

'No more they have,' acquiesced the under-taker.

'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing veryred in the face.

'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.

'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independentsort, in the house for a week or two,' said thebeadle; 'the rules and regulations of the boardwould soon bring their spirit down for 'em.'

'Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker.So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm therising wrath of the indignant parish officer.

Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took ahandkerchief from the inside of the crown;wiped from his forehead the perspirationwhich his rage had engendered; fixed thecocked hat on again; and, turning to the under-taker, said in a calmer voice:

'Well; what about the boy?'

'Oh!' replied the undertaker; 'why, you know,Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards thepoor's rates.'

'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?'

'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinkingthat if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right toget as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble;and so—I think I'll take the boy myself.'

Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm,and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberrywas closeted with the board for five minutes;and it was arranged that Oliver should go tohim that evening 'upon liking'—a phrase whichmeans, in the case of a parish apprentice, that ifthe master find, upon a short trial, that he canget enough work out of a boy without puttingtoo much food into him, he shall have him for aterm of years, to do what he likes with.

When little Oliver was taken before 'the gen-tlemen' that evening; and informed that he wasto go, that night, as general house-lad to a cof-fin-maker's; and that if he complained of hissituation, or ever came back to the parish again,

he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned,or knocked on the head, as the case might be,he evinced so little emotion, that they by com-mon consent pronounced him a hardenedyoung rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to re-move him forthwith.

Now, although it was very natural that theboard, of all people in the world, should feel ina great state of virtuous astonishment and hor-ror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling onthe part of anybody, they were rather out, inthis particular instance. The simple fact was,that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feel-ing, possessed rather too much; and was in afair way of being reduced, for life, to a state ofbrutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usagehe had received. He heard the news of his des-tination, in perfect silence; and, having had hisluggage put into his hand—which was not verydifficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all com-prised within the limits of a brown paper par-

cel, about half a foot square by three inchesdeep—he pulled his cap over his eyes; and oncemore attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coatcuff, was led away by that dignitary to a newscene of suffering.

For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along,without notice or remark; for the beadle carriedhis head very erect, as a beadle always should:and, it being a windy day, little Oliver wascompletely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr.Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosedto great advantage his flapped waistcoat anddrab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near totheir destination, however, Mr. Bumblethought it expedient to look down, and see thatthe boy was in good order for inspection by hisnew master: which he accordingly did, with afit and becoming air of gracious patronage.

'Oliver!' said Mr. Bumble.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, in a low, tremulousvoice.

'Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up yourhead, sir.'

Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once;and passed the back of his unoccupied handbriskly across his eyes, he left a tear in themwhen he looked up at his conductor. As Mr.Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled downhis cheek. It was followed by another, and an-other. The child made a strong effort, but it wasan unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his otherhand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his facewith both; and wept until the tears sprung outfrom between his chin and bony fingers.

'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short,and darting at his little charge a look of intensemalignity. 'Well! Of all the ungratefullest, andworst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, youare the—'

'No, no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the handwhich held the well-known cane; 'no, no, sir; Iwill be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! Iam a very little boy, sir; and it is so—so—'

'So what?' inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

'So lonely, sir! So very lonely!' cried the child.'Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't praybe cross to me!' The child beat his hand uponhis heart; and looked in his companion's face,with tears of real agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous andhelpless look, with some astonishment, for afew seconds; hemmed three or four times in ahusky manner; and after muttering somethingabout 'that troublesome cough,' bade Oliverdry his eyes and be a good boy. Then oncemore taking his hand, he walked on with himin silence.

The undertaker, who had just put up the shut-ters of his shop, was making some entries in hisday-book by the light of a most appropriatedismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

'Aha!' said the undertaker; looking up from thebook, and pausing in the middle of a word; 'isthat you, Bumble?'

'No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,' replied the bea-dle. 'Here! I've brought the boy.' Oliver made abow.

'Oh! that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker:raising the candle above his head, to get a bet-ter view of Oliver. 'Mrs. Sowerberry, will youhave the goodness to come here a moment, mydear?'

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little roombehind the shop, and presented the form of ashort, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixen-ish countenance.

'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially,'this is the boy from the workhouse that I toldyou of.' Oliver bowed again.

'Dear me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's verysmall.'

'Why, he is rather small,' replied Mr. Bumble:looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that hewas no bigger; 'he is small. There's no denyingit. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he'll grow.'

'Ah! I dare say he will,' replied the lady pet-tishly, 'on our victuals and our drink. I see nosaving in parish children, not I; for they alwayscost more to keep, than they're worth. How-ever, men always think they know best. There!Get downstairs, little bag o' bones.' With this,the undertaker's wife opened a side door, andpushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs intoa stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes

down at heel, and blue worsted stockings verymuch out of repair.

'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, whohad followed Oliver down, 'give this boy someof the cold bits that were put by for Trip. Hehasn't come home since the morning, so he maygo without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't toodainty to eat 'em—are you, boy?'

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the men-tion of meat, and who was trembling with ea-gerness to devour it, replied in the negative;and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was setbefore him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meatand drink turn to gall within him; whose bloodis ice, whose heart is iron; could have seenOliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands thatthe dog had neglected. I wish he could havewitnessed the horrible avidity with whichOliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity

of famine. There is only one thing I should likebetter; and that would be to see the Philosophermaking the same sort of meal himself, with thesame relish.

'Well,' said the undertaker's wife, when Oliverhad finished his supper: which she had re-garded in silent horror, and with fearful augu-ries of his future appetite: 'have you done?'

There being nothing eatable within his reach,Oliver replied in the affirmative.

'Then come with me,' said Mrs. Sowerberry:taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leadingthe way upstairs; 'your bed's under the counter.You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, Isuppose? But it doesn't much matter whetheryou do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhereelse. Come; don't keep me here all night!'

Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followedhis new mistress.

CHAPTER V

OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCI-ATES.GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRSTTIME,HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTIONOF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker'sshop, set the lamp down on a workman'sbench, and gazed timidly about him with afeeling of awe and dread, which many people agood deal older than he will be at no loss tounderstand. An unfinished coffin on black tres-sels, which stood in the middle of the shop,looked so gloomy and death-like that a coldtremble came over him, every time his eyeswandered in the direction of the dismal object:

from which he almost expected to see somefrightful form slowly rear its head, to drive himmad with terror. Against the wall were ranged,in regular array, a long row of elm boards cutin the same shape: looking in the dim light, likehigh-shouldered ghosts with their hands intheir breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips,bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth,lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behindthe counter was ornamented with a lively rep-resentation of two mutes in very stiff neck-cloths, on duty at a large private door, with ahearse drawn by four black steeds, approach-ing in the distance. The shop was close and hot.The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smellof coffins. The recess beneath the counter inwhich his flock mattress was thrust, looked likea grave.

Nor were these the only dismal feelings whichdepressed Oliver. He was alone in a strangeplace; and we all know how chilled and deso-

late the best of us will sometimes feel in such asituation. The boy had no friends to care for, orto care for him. The regret of no recent separa-tion was fresh in his mind; the absence of noloved and well-remembered face sank heavilyinto his heart.

But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; andhe wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, thatthat were his coffin, and that he could be lain ina calm and lasting sleep in the churchyardground, with the tall grass waving gently abovehis head, and the sound of the old deep bell tosoothe him in his sleep.

Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loudkicking at the outside of the shop-door: which,before he could huddle on his clothes, was re-peated, in an angry and impetuous manner,about twenty-five times. When he began toundo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voicebegan.

'Open the door, will yer?' cried the voice whichbelonged to the legs which had kicked at thedoor.

'I will, directly, sir,' replied Oliver: undoing thechain, and turning the key.

'I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?' said thevoice through the key-hole.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.

'How old are yer?' inquired the voice.

'Ten, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Then I'll whop yer when I get in,' said thevoice; 'you just see if I don't, that's all, mywork'us brat!' and having made this obligingpromise, the voice began to whistle.

Oliver had been too often subjected to the proc-ess to which the very expressive monosyllablejust recorded bears reference, to entertain the

smallest doubt that the owner of the voice,whoever he might be, would redeem hispledge, most honourably. He drew back thebolts with a trembling hand, and opened thedoor.

For a second or two, Oliver glanced up thestreet, and down the street, and over the way:impressed with the belief that the unknown,who had addressed him through the key-hole,had walked a few paces off, to warm himself;for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy,sitting on a post in front of the house, eating aslice of bread and butter: which he cut intowedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver at length:seeing that no other visitor made his appear-ance; 'did you knock?'

'I kicked,' replied the charity-boy.

'Did you want a coffin, sir?' inquired Oliver,innocently.

At this, the charity-boy looked monstrousfierce; and said that Oliver would want onebefore long, if he cut jokes with his superiors inthat way.

'Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?'said the charity-boy, in continuation: descend-ing from the top of the post, meanwhile, withedifying gravity.

'No, sir,' rejoined Oliver.

'I'm Mister Noah Claypole,' said the charity-boy, 'and you're under me. Take down theshutters, yer idle young ruffian!' With this, Mr.Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, andentered the shop with a dignified air, which didhim great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering makeand heavy countenance, to look dignified un-

der any circumstances; but it is more especiallyso, when superadded to these personal attrac-tions are a red nose and yellow smalls.

Oliver, having taken down the shutters, andbroken a pane of glass in his effort to staggeraway beneath the weight of the first one to asmall court at the side of the house in whichthey were kept during the day, was graciouslyassisted by Noah: who having consoled himwith the assurance that 'he'd catch it,' conde-scended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry camedown soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sow-erberry appeared. Oliver having 'caught it,' infulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed thatyoung gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.

'Come near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte. 'Isaved a nice little bit of bacon for you frommaster's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door atMister Noah's back, and take them bits that I'veput out on the cover of the bread-pan. There'syour tea; take it away to that box, and drink it

there, and make haste, for they'll want you tomind the shop. D'ye hear?'

'D'ye hear, Work'us?' said Noah Claypole.

'Lor, Noah!' said Charlotte, 'what a rum crea-ture you are! Why don't you let the boy alone?'

'Let him alone!' said Noah. 'Why everybody letshim alone enough, for the matter of that. Nei-ther his father nor his mother will ever interferewith him. All his relations let him have his ownway pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!'

'Oh, you queer soul!' said Charlotte, burstinginto a hearty laugh, in which she was joined byNoah; after which they both looked scornfullyat poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on thebox in the coldest corner of the room, and atethe stale pieces which had been specially re-served for him.

Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouseorphan. No chance-child was he, for he couldtrace his genealogy all the way back to his par-ents, who lived hard by; his mother being awasherwoman, and his father a drunken sol-dier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a di-urnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and anunstateable fraction. The shop-boys in theneighbourhood had long been in the habit ofbranding Noah in the public streets, with theignominious epithets of 'leathers,' 'charity,' andthe like; and Noah had bourne them withoutreply. But, now that fortune had cast in his waya nameless orphan, at whom even the meanestcould point the finger of scorn, he retorted onhim with interest. This affords charming foodfor contemplation. It shows us what a beautifulthing human nature may be made to be; andhow impartially the same amiable qualities aredeveloped in the finest lord and the dirtiestcharity-boy.

Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker'ssome three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs.Sowerberry—the shop being shut up—weretaking their supper in the little back-parlour,when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferentialglances at his wife, said,

'My dear—' He was going to say more; but,Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a peculiarlyunpropitious aspect, he stopped short.

'Well,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.

'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said Mr. Sower-berry.

'Ugh, you brute!' said Mrs. Sowerberry.

'Not at all, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry hum-bly. 'I thought you didn't want to hear, mydear. I was only going to say—'

'Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say,'interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'I am nobody;

don't consult me, pray. I don't want to intrudeupon your secrets.' As Mrs. Sowerberry saidthis, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threat-ened violent consequences.

'But, my dear,' said Sowerberry, 'I want to askyour advice.'

'No, no, don't ask mine,' replied Mrs. Sower-berry, in an affecting manner: 'ask somebodyelse's.' Here, there was another hystericallaugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry verymuch. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment,which is often very effective. It at once reducedMr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour,to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry wasmost curious to hear. After a short duration, thepermission was most graciously conceded.

'It's only about young Twist, my dear,' said Mr.Sowerberry. 'A very good-looking boy, that, mydear.'

'He need be, for he eats enough,' observed thelady.

'There's an expression of melancholy in his face,my dear,' resumed Mr. Sowerberry, 'which isvery interesting. He would make a delightfulmute, my love.'

Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expressionof considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberryremarked it and, without allowing time for anyobservation on the good lady's part, proceeded.

'I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children'spractice. It would be very new to have a mutein proportion, my dear. You may depend uponit, it would have a superb effect.'

Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of tastein the undertaking way, was much struck bythe novelty of this idea; but, as it would havebeen compromising her dignity to have said so,

under existing circumstances, she merely in-quired, with much sharpness, why such an ob-vious suggestion had not presented itself to herhusband's mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightlyconstrued this, as an acquiescence in his propo-sition; it was speedily determined, therefore,that Oliver should be at once initiated into themysteries of the trade; and, with this view, thathe should accompany his master on the verynext occasion of his services being required.

The occasion was not long in coming. Half anhour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumbleentered the shop; and supporting his caneagainst the counter, drew forth his large leath-ern pocket-book: from which he selected asmall scrap of paper, which he handed over toSowerberry.

'Aha!' said the undertaker, glancing over it witha lively countenance; 'an order for a coffin, eh?'

'For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral af-terwards,' replied Mr. Bumble, fastening thestrap of the leathern pocket-book: which, likehimself, was very corpulent.

'Bayton,' said the undertaker, looking from thescrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. 'I never heardthe name before.'

Bumble shook his head, as he replied, 'Obsti-nate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate.Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir.'

'Proud, eh?' exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with asneer. 'Come, that's too much.'

'Oh, it's sickening,' replied the beadle. 'Antimo-nial, Mr. Sowerberry!'

'So it is,' acquiesced the undertaker.

'We only heard of the family the night beforelast,' said the beadle; 'and we shouldn't haveknown anything about them, then, only a

woman who lodges in the same house made anapplication to the porochial committee for themto send the porochial surgeon to see a womanas was very bad. He had gone out to dinner;but his 'prentice (which is a very clever lad)sent 'em some medicine in a blacking-bottle,offhand.'

'Ah, there's promptness,' said the undertaker.

'Promptness, indeed!' replied the beadle. 'Butwhat's the consequence; what's the ungratefulbehaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the hus-band sends back word that the medicine won'tsuit his wife's complaint, and so she shan't takeit—says she shan't take it, sir! Good, strong,wholesome medicine, as was given with greatsuccess to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before—sent 'em for noth-ing, with a blackin'-bottle in,—and he sendsback word that she shan't take it, sir!'

As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble'smind in full force, he struck the counter sharplywith his cane, and became flushed with indig-nation.

'Well,' said the undertaker, 'I ne—ver—did—'

'Never did, sir!' ejaculated the beadle. 'No, nornobody never did; but now she's dead, we'vegot to bury her; and that's the direction; and thesooner it's done, the better.'

Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hatwrong side first, in a fever of parochial excite-ment; and flounced out of the shop.

'Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgoteven to ask after you!' said Mr. Sowerberry,looking after the beadle as he strode down thestreet.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, who had carefully kepthimself out of sight, during the interview; and

who was shaking from head to foot at the mererecollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice.

He needn't haven taken the trouble to shrinkfrom Mr. Bumble's glance, however; for thatfunctionary, on whom the prediction of thegentleman in the white waistcoat had made avery strong impression, thought that now theundertaker had got Oliver upon trial the sub-ject was better avoided, until such time as heshould be firmly bound for seven years, and alldanger of his being returned upon the hands ofthe parish should be thus effectually and le-gally overcome.

'Well,' said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat,'the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah,look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap,and come with me.' Oliver obeyed, and fol-lowed his master on his professional mission.

They walked on, for some time, through themost crowded and densely inhabited part of

the town; and then, striking down a narrowstreet more dirty and miserable than any theyhad yet passed through, paused to look for thehouse which was the object of their search. Thehouses on either side were high and large, butvery old, and tenanted by people of the poorestclass: as their neglected appearance would havesufficiently denoted, without the concurrenttestimony afforded by the squalid looks of thefew men and women who, with folded armsand bodies half doubled, occasionally skulkedalong. A great many of the tenements hadshop-fronts; but these were fast closed, andmouldering away; only the upper rooms beinginhabited. Some houses which had becomeinsecure from age and decay, were preventedfrom falling into the street, by huge beams ofwood reared against the walls, and firmlyplanted in the road; but even these crazy densseemed to have been selected as the nightlyhaunts of some houseless wretches, for many ofthe rough boards which supplied the place of

door and window, were wrenched from theirpositions, to afford an aperture wide enoughfor the passage of a human body. The kennelwas stagnant and filthy. The very rats, whichhere and there lay putrefying in its rottenness,were hideous with famine.

There was neither knocker nor bell-handle atthe open door where Oliver and his masterstopped; so, groping his way cautiouslythrough the dark passage, and bidding Oliverkeep close to him and not be afraid the under-taker mounted to the top of the first flight ofstairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing,he rapped at it with his knuckles.

It was opened by a young girl of thirteen orfourteen. The undertaker at once saw enoughof what the room contained, to know it was theapartment to which he had been directed. Hestepped in; Oliver followed him.

There was no fire in the room; but a man wascrouching, mechanically, over the empty stove.An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool tothe cold hearth, and was sitting beside him.There were some ragged children in anothercorner; and in a small recess, opposite the door,there lay upon the ground, something coveredwith an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as hecast his eyes toward the place, and crept invol-untarily closer to his master; for though it wascovered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.

The man's face was thin and very pale; his hairand beard were grizzly; his eyes were blood-shot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; hertwo remaining teeth protruded over her underlip; and her eyes were bright and piercing.Oliver was afraid to look at either her or theman. They seemed so like the rats he had seenoutside.

'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, start-ing fiercely up, as the undertaker approached

the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, ifyou've a life to lose!'

'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker,who was pretty well used to misery in all itsshapes. 'Nonsense!'

'I tell you,' said the man: clenching his hands,and stamping furiously on the floor,—'I tell youI won't have her put into the ground. Shecouldn't rest there. The worms would worryher—not eat her—she is so worn away.'

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving;but producing a tape from his pocket, kneltdown for a moment by the side of the body.

'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, andsinking on his knees at the feet of the deadwoman; 'kneel down, kneel down—kneelround her, every one of you, and mark mywords! I say she was starved to death. I neverknew how bad she was, till the fever came

upon her; and then her bones were startingthrough the skin. There was neither fire norcandle; she died in the dark—in the dark! Shecouldn't even see her children's faces, thoughwe heard her gasping out their names. I beggedfor her in the streets: and they sent me toprison. When I came back, she was dying; andall the blood in my heart has dried up, for theystarved her to death. I swear it before the Godthat saw it! They starved her!' He twined hishands in his hair; and, with a loud scream,rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed,and the foam covering his lips.

The terrified children cried bitterly; but the oldwoman, who had hitherto remained as quiet asif she had been wholly deaf to all that passed,menaced them into silence. Having unloosenedthe cravat of the man who still remained ex-tended on the ground, she tottered towards theundertaker.

'She was my daughter,' said the old woman,nodding her head in the direction of the corpse;and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastlythan even the presence of death in such a place.'Lord, Lord! Well, it is strange that I who gavebirth to her, and was a woman then, should bealive and merry now, and she lying there: socold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it's asgood as a play—as good as a play!'

As the wretched creature mumbled and chuck-led in her hideous merriment, the undertakerturned to go away.

'Stop, stop!' said the old woman in a loudwhisper. 'Will she be buried to-morrow, or nextday, or to-night? I laid her out; and I mustwalk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a goodwarm one: for it is bitter cold. We should havecake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind;send some bread—only a loaf of bread and acup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?'

she said eagerly: catching at the undertaker'scoat, as he once more moved towards the door.

'Yes, yes,' said the undertaker,'of course. Any-thing you like!' He disengaged himself from theold woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver afterhim, hurried away.

The next day, (the family having been mean-while relieved with a half-quartern loaf and apiece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumblehimself,) Oliver and his master returned to themiserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had al-ready arrived, accompanied by four men fromthe workhouse, who were to act as bearers. Anold black cloak had been thrown over the ragsof the old woman and the man; and the barecoffin having been screwed down, was hoistedon the shoulders of the bearers, and carried intothe street.

'Now, you must put your best leg foremost, oldlady!' whispered Sowerberry in the old

woman's ear; 'we are rather late; and it won'tdo, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on,my men,—as quick as you like!'

Thus directed, the bearers trotted on undertheir light burden; and the two mourners keptas near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble andSowerberry walked at a good smart pace infront; and Oliver, whose legs were not so longas his master's, ran by the side.

There was not so great a necessity for hurryingas Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however;for when they reached the obscure corner of thechurchyard in which the nettles grew, andwhere the parish graves were made, the cler-gyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who wassitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to thinkit by no means improbable that it might be anhour or so, before he came. So, they put the bieron the brink of the grave; and the two mourn-ers waited patiently in the damp clay, with acold rain drizzling down, while the ragged

boys whom the spectacle had attracted into thechurchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied theiramusements by jumping backwards and for-wards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry andBumble, being personal friends of the clerk, satby the fire with him, and read the paper.

At length, after a lapse of something more thanan hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and theclerk, were seen running towards the grave.Immediately afterwards, the clergyman ap-peared: putting on his surplice as he camealong. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two,to keep up appearances; and the reverend gen-tleman, having read as much of the burial ser-vice as could be compressed into four minutes,gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked awayagain.

'Now, Bill!' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. 'Fill up!'

It was no very difficult task, for the grave wasso full, that the uppermost coffin was within afew feet of the surface. The grave-digger shov-elled in the earth; stamped it loosely down withhis feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off,followed by the boys, who murmured veryloud complaints at the fun being over so soon.

'Come, my good fellow!' said Bumble, tappingthe man on the back. 'They want to shut up theyard.'

The man who had never once moved, since hehad taken his station by the grave side, started,raised his head, stared at the person who hadaddressed him, walked forward for a fewpaces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy oldwoman was too much occupied in bewailingthe loss of her cloak (which the undertaker hadtaken off), to pay him any attention; so theythrew a can of cold water over him; and whenhe came to, saw him safely out of the church-

yard, locked the gate, and departed on theirdifferent ways.

'Well, Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walkedhome, 'how do you like it?'

'Pretty well, thank you, sir' replied Oliver, withconsiderable hesitation. 'Not very much, sir.'

'Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver,' saidSowerberry. 'Nothing when you are used to it,my boy.'

Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether ithad taken a very long time to get Mr. Sower-berry used to it. But he thought it better not toask the question; and walked back to the shop:thinking over all he had seen and heard.

CHAPTER VI

OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THETAUNTS OF NOAH,ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHERASTONISHES HIM

The month's trial over, Oliver was formallyapprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just atthis time. In commercial phrase, coffins werelooking up; and, in the course of a few weeks,Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. Thesuccess of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious specula-tion, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes.The oldest inhabitants recollected no period atwhich measles had been so prevalent, or sofatal to infant existence; and many were themournful processions which little Oliverheaded, in a hat-band reaching down to hisknees, to the indescribable admiration andemotion of all the mothers in the town. AsOliver accompanied his master in most of his

adult expeditions too, in order that he mightacquire that equanimity of demeanour and fullcommand of nerve which was essential to afinished undertaker, he had many opportuni-ties of observing the beautiful resignation andfortitude with which some strong-minded peo-ple bear their trials and losses.

For instance; when Sowerberry had an orderfor the burial of some rich old lady or gentle-man, who was surrounded by a great numberof nephews and nieces, who had been perfectlyinconsolable during the previous illness, andwhose grief had been wholly irrepressible evenon the most public occasions, they would be ashappy among themselves as need be—quitecheerful and contented—conversing togetherwith as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothingwhatever had happened to disturb them. Hus-bands, too, bore the loss of their wives with themost heroic calmness. Wives, again, put onweeds for their husbands, as if, so far from

grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had madeup their minds to render it as becoming andattractive as possible. It was observable, too,that ladies and gentlemen who were in pas-sions of anguish during the ceremony of inter-ment, recovered almost as soon as they reachedhome, and became quite composed before thetea-drinking was over. All this was very pleas-ant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld itwith great admiration.

That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation bythe example of these good people, I cannot,although I am his biographer, undertake toaffirm with any degree of confidence; but I canmost distinctly say, that for many months hecontinued meekly to submit to the dominationand ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who usedhim far worse than before, now that his jeal-ousy was roused by seeing the new boy pro-moted to the black stick and hatband, while he,the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-

cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, be-cause Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was hisdecided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry wasdisposed to be his friend; so, between thesethree on one side, and a glut of funerals on theother, Oliver was not altogether as comfortableas the hungry pig was, when he was shut up,by mistake, in the grain department of a brew-ery.

And now, I come to a very important passagein Oliver's history; for I have to record an act,slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance,but which indirectly produced a materialchange in all his future prospects and proceed-ings.

One day, Oliver and Noah had descended intothe kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquetupon a small joint of mutton—a pound and ahalf of the worst end of the neck—when Char-lotte being called out of the way, there ensued abrief interval of time, which Noah Claypole,

being hungry and vicious, considered he couldnot possibly devote to a worthier purpose thanaggravating and tantalising young OliverTwist.

Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noahput his feet on the table-cloth; and pulledOliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and ex-pressed his opinion that he was a 'sneak'; andfurthermore announced his intention of comingto see him hanged, whenever that desirableevent should take place; and entered uponvarious topics of petty annoyance, like a mali-cious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was.But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to bemore facetious still; and in his attempt, didwhat many sometimes do to this day, whenthey want to be funny. He got rather personal.

'Work'us,' said Noah, 'how's your mother?'

'She's dead,' replied Oliver; 'don't you say any-thing about her to me!'

Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathedquickly; and there was a curious working of themouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypolethought must be the immediate precursor of aviolent fit of crying. Under this impression hereturned to the charge.

'What did she die of, Work'us?' said Noah.

'Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses toldme,' replied Oliver: more as if he were talkingto himself, than answering Noah. 'I think Iknow what it must be to die of that!'

'Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' saidNoah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek.'What's set you a snivelling now?'

'Not you,' replied Oliver, sharply. 'There; that'senough. Don't say anything more to me abouther; you'd better not!'

'Better not!' exclaimed Noah. 'Well! Better not!Work'us, don't be impudent. Your mother, too!She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!' And here,Noah nodded his head expressively; and curledup as much of his small red nose as muscularaction could collect together, for the occasion.

'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, embold-ened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeer-ing tone of affected pity: of all tones the mostannoying: 'Yer know, Work'us, it can't behelped now; and of course yer couldn't help itthen; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure weall are, and pity yer very much. But yer mustknow, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un.'

'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking upvery quickly.

'A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' re-plied Noah, coolly. 'And it's a great deal better,Work'us, that she died when she did, or else

she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, ortransported, or hung; which is more likely thaneither, isn't it?'

Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; over-threw the chair and table; seized Noah by thethroat; shook him, in the violence of his rage,till his teeth chattered in his head; and collect-ing his whole force into one heavy blow, felledhim to the ground.

A minute ago, the boy had looked the quietchild, mild, dejected creature that harsh treat-ment had made him. But his spirit was rousedat last; the cruel insult to his dead mother hadset his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his atti-tude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; hiswhole person changed, as he stood glaring overthe cowardly tormentor who now lay crouch-ing at his feet; and defied him with an energyhe had never known before.

'He'll murder me!' blubbered Noah. 'Charlotte!missis! Here's the new boy a murdering of me!Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char—lotte!'

Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loudscream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs.Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed intothe kitchen by a side-door, while the latterpaused on the staircase till she was quite cer-tain that it was consistent with the preservationof human life, to come further down.

'Oh, you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte:seizing Oliver with her utmost force, whichwas about equal to that of a moderately strongman in particularly good training. 'Oh, youlittle un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!'And between every syllable, Charlotte gaveOliver a blow with all her might: accompany-ing it with a scream, for the benefit of society.

Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one;but, lest it should not be effectual in calming

Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged intothe kitchen, and assisted to hold him with onehand, while she scratched his face with theother. In this favourable position of affairs,Noah rose from the ground, and pommelledhim behind.

This was rather too violent exercise to last long.When they were all wearied out, and could tearand beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, strug-gling and shouting, but nothing daunted, intothe dust-cellar, and there locked him up. Thisbeing done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair,and burst into tears.

'Bless her, she's going off!' said Charlotte. 'Aglass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!'

'Oh! Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: speakingas well as she could, through a deficiency ofbreath, and a sufficiency of cold water, whichNoah had poured over her head and shoulders.

'Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not allbeen murdered in our beds!'

'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. Ionly hope this'll teach master not to have anymore of these dreadful creatures, that are bornto be murderers and robbers from their verycradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed,ma'am, when I come in.'

'Poor fellow!' said Mrs. Sowerberry: lookingpiteously on the charity-boy.

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might havebeen somewhere on a level with the crown ofOliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the insideof his wrists while this commiseration was be-stowed upon him, and performed some affect-ing tears and sniffs.

'What's to be done!' exclaimed Mrs. Sower-berry. 'Your master's not at home; there's not aman in the house, and he'll kick that door down

in ten minutes.' Oliver's vigorous plungesagainst the bit of timber in question, renderedthis occurance highly probable.

'Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am,' said Char-lotte, 'unless we send for the police-officers.'

'Or the millingtary,' suggested Mr. Claypole.

'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking her-self of Oliver's old friend. 'Run to Mr. Bumble,Noah, and tell him to come here directly, andnot to lose a minute; never mind your cap!Make haste! You can hold a knife to that blackeye, as you run along. It'll keep the swellingdown.'

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started offat his fullest speed; and very much it aston-ished the people who were out walking, to seea charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knifeat his eye.

CHAPTER VII

OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY

Noah Claypole ran along the streets at hisswiftest pace, and paused not once for breath,until he reached the workhouse-gate. Havingrested here, for a minute or so, to collect a goodburst of sobs and an imposing show of tearsand terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket;and presented such a rueful face to the agedpauper who opened it, that even he, who sawnothing but rueful faces about him at the bestof times, started back in astonishment.

'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said theold pauper.

'Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, withwell-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and

agitated, that they not only caught the ear ofMr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hardby, but alarmed him so much that he rushedinto the yard without his cocked hat,—which isa very curious and remarkable circumstance: asshowing that even a beadle, acted upon a sud-den and powerful impulse, may be afflictedwith a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dig-nity.

'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!' said Noah: 'Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—'

'What? What?' interposed Mr. Bumble: with agleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. 'Not runaway; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?'

'No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turnedwicious,' replied Noah. 'He tried to murder me,sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; andthen missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is!

Such agony, please, sir!' And here, Noahwrithed and twisted his body into an extensivevariety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr.Bumble to understand that, from the violentand sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he hadsustained severe internal injury and damage,from which he was at that moment sufferingthe acutest torture.

When Noah saw that the intelligence he com-municated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, heimparted additional effect thereunto, by be-wailing his dreadful wounds ten times louderthan before; and when he observed a gentle-man in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, hewas more tragic in his lamentations than ever:rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attractthe notice, and rouse the indignation, of thegentleman aforesaid.

The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted;for he had not walked three paces, when heturned angrily round, and inquired what that

young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bum-ble did not favour him with something whichwould render the series of vocular exclama-tions so designated, an involuntary process?

'It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir,' repliedMr. Bumble, 'who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir,—by young Twist.'

'By Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat, stopping short. 'I knew it! I felt astrange presentiment from the very first, thatthat audacious young savage would come to behung!'

'He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder thefemale servant,' said Mr. Bumble, with a face ofashy paleness.

'And his missis,' interposed Mr. Claypole.

'And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?'added Mr. Bumble.

'No! he's out, or he would have murdered him,'replied Noah. 'He said he wanted to.'

'Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?' in-quired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

'Yes, sir,' replied Noah. 'And please, sir, missiswants to know whether Mr. Bumble can sparetime to step up there, directly, and flog him—'cause master's out.'

'Certainly, my boy; certainly,' said the gentle-man in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly,and patting Noah's head, which was aboutthree inches higher than his own. 'You're agood boy—a very good boy. Here's a penny foryou. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's withyour cane, and see what's best to be done. Don'tspare him, Bumble.'

'No, I will not, sir,' replied the beadle. And thecocked hat and cane having been, by this time,adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bum-

ble and Noah Claypole betook themselves withall speed to the undertaker's shop.

Here the position of affairs had not at all im-proved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, andOliver continued to kick, with undiminishedvigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of hisferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry andCharlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr.Bumble judged it prudent to parley, beforeopening the door. With this view he gave a kickat the outside, by way of prelude; and, then,applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in adeep and impressive tone:

'Oliver!'

'Come; you let me out!' replied Oliver, from theinside.

'Do you know this here voice, Oliver?' said Mr.Bumble.

'Yes,' replied Oliver.

'Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-tremblingwhile I speak, sir?' said Mr. Bumble.

'No!' replied Oliver, boldly.

An answer so different from the one he hadexpected to elicit, and was in the habit of re-ceiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. Hestepped back from the keyhole; drew himselfup to his full height; and looked from one toanother of the three bystanders, in mute aston-ishment.

'Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,'said Mrs. Sowerberry.

'No boy in half his senses could venture tospeak so to you.'

'It's not Madness, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble,after a few moments of deep meditation. 'It'sMeat.'

'What?' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.

'Meat, ma'am, meat,' replied Bumble, with sternemphasis. 'You've over-fed him, ma'am. You'veraised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'amunbecoming a person of his condition: as theboard, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical phi-losophers, will tell you. What have paupers todo with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that welet 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boyon gruel, ma'am, this would never have hap-pened.'

'Dear, dear!' ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, pi-ously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling:'this comes of being liberal!'

The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, hadconsisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of allthe dirty odds and ends which nobody elsewould eat; so there was a great deal of meek-ness and self-devotion in her voluntarily re-maining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation.

Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly in-nocent, in thought, word, or deed.

'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady broughther eyes down to earth again; 'the only thingthat can be done now, that I know of, is to leavehim in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a littlestarved down; and then to take him out, andkeep him on gruel all through the apprentice-ship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable na-tures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse anddoctor said, that that mother of his made herway here, against difficulties and pain thatwould have killed any well-disposed woman,weeks before.'

At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver,just hearing enough to know that some allusionwas being made to his mother, recommencedkicking, with a violence that rendered everyother sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned atthis juncture. Oliver's offence having been ex-plained to him, with such exaggerations as the

ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire,he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, anddragged his rebellious apprentice out, by thecollar.

Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating hehad received; his face was bruised andscratched; and his hair scattered over his fore-head. The angry flush had not disappeared,however; and when he was pulled out of hisprison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and lookedquite undismayed.

'Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?'said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and abox on the ear.

'He called my mother names,' replied Oliver.

'Well, and what if he did, you little ungratefulwretch?' said Mrs. Sowerberry. 'She deservedwhat he said, and worse.'

'She didn't' said Oliver.

'She did,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.

'It's a lie!' said Oliver.

Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.

This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alter-native. If he had hesitated for one instant topunish Oliver most severely, it must be quiteclear to every experienced reader that he wouldhave been, according to all precedents in dis-putes of matrimony established, a brute, anunnatural husband, an insulting creature, abase imitation of a man, and various otheragreeable characters too numerous for recitalwithin the limits of this chapter. To do him jus-tice, he was, as far as his power went—it wasnot very extensive—kindly disposed towardsthe boy; perhaps, because it was his interest tobe so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him.The flood of tears, however, left him no re-

source; so he at once gave him a drubbing,which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself,and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent appli-cation of the parochial cane, rather unneces-sary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up inthe back kitchen, in company with a pump anda slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry,after making various remarks outside the door,by no means complimentary to the memory ofhis mother, looked into the room, and, amidstthe jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte,ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.

It was not until he was left alone in the silenceand stillness of the gloomy workshop of theundertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelingswhich the day's treatment may be supposedlikely to have awakened in a mere child. Hehad listened to their taunts with a look of con-tempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: forhe felt that pride swelling in his heart whichwould have kept down a shriek to the last,

though they had roasted him alive. But now,when there were none to see or hear him, hefell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding hisface in his hands, wept such tears as, God sendfor the credit of our nature, few so young mayever have cause to pour out before him!

For a long time, Oliver remained motionless inthis attitude. The candle was burning low in thesocket when he rose to his feet. Having gazedcautiously round him, and listened intently, hegently undid the fastenings of the door, andlooked abroad.

It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, tothe boy's eyes, farther from the earth than hehad ever seen them before; there was no wind;and the sombre shadows thrown by the treesupon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed thedoor. Having availed himself of the expiringlight of the candle to tie up in a handkerchiefthe few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat

himself down upon a bench, to wait for morn-ing.

With the first ray of light that struggledthrough the crevices in the shutters, Oliverarose, and again unbarred the door. One timidlook around—one moment's pause of hesita-tion—he had closed it behind him, and was inthe open street.

He looked to the right and to the left, uncertainwhither to fly.

He remembered to have seen the waggons, asthey went out, toiling up the hill. He took thesame route; and arriving at a footpath acrossthe fields: which he knew, after some distance,led out again into the road; struck into it, andwalked quickly on.

Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble,when he first carried him to the workhouse

from the farm. His way lay directly in front ofthe cottage. His heart beat quickly when hebethought himself of this; and he half resolvedto turn back. He had come a long way though,and should lose a great deal of time by doingso. Besides, it was so early that there was verylittle fear of his being seen; so he walked on.

He reached the house. There was no appear-ance of its inmates stirring at that early hour.Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. Achild was weeding one of the little beds; as hestopped, he raised his pale face and disclosedthe features of one of his former companions.Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for,though younger than himself, he had been hislittle friend and playmate. They had beenbeaten, and starved, and shut up together,many and many a time.

'Hush, Dick!' said Oliver, as the boy ran to thegate, and thrust his thin arm between the railsto greet him. 'Is any one up?'

'Nobody but me,' replied the child.

'You musn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver.'I am running away. They beat and ill-use me,Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, somelong way off. I don't know where. How paleyou are!'

'I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' re-plied the child with a faint smile. 'I am veryglad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don'tstop!'

'Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you,' re-plied Oliver. 'I shall see you again, Dick. I knowI shall! You will be well and happy!'

'I hope so,' replied the child. 'After I am dead,but not before. I know the doctor must be right,Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven,and Angels, and kind faces that I never seewhen I am awake. Kiss me,' said the child,climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little

arms round Oliver's neck. 'Good-b'ye, dear!God bless you!'

The blessing was from a young child's lips, butit was the first that Oliver had ever heard in-voked upon his head; and through the strug-gles and sufferings, and troubles and changes,of his after life, he never once forgot it.

CHAPTER VIII

OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON.HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD ASTRANGE SORTOF YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Oliver reached the stile at which the by-pathterminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he wasnearly five miles away from the town, he ran,

and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon:fearing that he might be pursued and over-taken. Then he sat down to rest by the side ofthe milestone, and began to think, for the firsttime, where he had better go and try to live.

The stone by which he was seated, bore, inlarge characters, an intimation that it was justseventy miles from that spot to London. Thename awakened a new train of ideas in theboy's mind.

London!—that great place!—nobody—not evenMr. Bumble—could ever find him there! Hehad often heard the old men in the workhouse,too, say that no lad of spirit need want in Lon-don; and that there were ways of living in thatvast city, which those who had been bred up incountry parts had no idea of. It was the veryplace for a homeless boy, who must die in thestreets unless some one helped him. As thesethings passed through his thoughts, he jumpedupon his feet, and again walked forward.

He had diminished the distance between him-self and London by full four miles more, beforehe recollected how much he must undergo erehe could hope to reach his place of destination.As this consideration forced itself upon him, heslackened his pace a little, and meditated uponhis means of getting there. He had a crust ofbread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stock-ings, in his bundle. He had a penny too—a giftof Sowerberry's after some funeral in which hehad acquitted himself more than ordinarilywell—in his pocket. 'A clean shirt,' thoughtOliver, 'is a very comfortable thing; and so aretwo pairs of darned stockings; and so is apenny; but they are small helps to a sixty-fivemiles' walk in winter time.' But Oliver'sthoughts, like those of most other people, al-though they were extremely ready and activeto point out his difficulties, were wholly at aloss to suggest any feasible mode of surmount-ing them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no

particular purpose, he changed his little bundleover to the other shoulder, and trudged on.

Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and allthat time tasted nothing but the crust of drybread, and a few draughts of water, which hebegged at the cottage-doors by the road-side.When the night came, he turned into ameadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick,determined to lie there, till morning. He feltfrightened at first, for the wind moaned dis-mally over the empty fields: and he was coldand hungry, and more alone than he had everfelt before. Being very tired with his walk,however, he soon fell asleep and forgot histroubles.

He felt cold and stiff, when he got up nextmorning, and so hungry that he was obliged toexchange the penny for a small loaf, in the veryfirst village through which he passed. He hadwalked no more than twelve miles, when nightclosed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs

so weak that they trembled beneath him. An-other night passed in the bleak damp air, madehim worse; when he set forward on his journeynext morning he could hardly crawl along.

He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till astage-coach came up, and then begged of theoutside passengers; but there were very fewwho took any notice of him: and even thosetold him to wait till they got to the top of thehill, and then let them see how far he could runfor a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep upwith the coach a little way, but was unable todo it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet.When the outsides saw this, they put theirhalfpence back into their pockets again, declar-ing that he was an idle young dog, and didn'tdeserve anything; and the coach rattled awayand left only a cloud of dust behind.

In some villages, large painted boards werefixed up: warning all persons who beggedwithin the district, that they would be sent to

jail. This frightened Oliver very much, andmade him glad to get out of those villages withall possible expedition. In others, he wouldstand about the inn-yards, and look mournfullyat every one who passed: a proceeding whichgenerally terminated in the landlady's orderingone of the post-boys who were lounging about,to drive that strange boy out of the place, forshe was sure he had come to steal something. Ifhe begged at a farmer's house, ten to one butthey threatened to set the dog on him; andwhen he showed his nose in a shop, they talkedabout the beadle—which brought Oliver's heartinto his mouth,—very often the only thing hehad there, for many hours together.

In fact, if it had not been for a good-heartedturnpike-man, and a benevolent old lady,Oliver's troubles would have been shortenedby the very same process which had put an endto his mother's; in other words, he would mostassuredly have fallen dead upon the king's

highway. But the turnpike-man gave him ameal of bread and cheese; and the old lady,who had a shipwrecked grandson wanderingbarefoot in some distant part of the earth, tookpity upon the poor orphan, and gave him whatlittle she could afford—and more—with suchkind and gentle words, and such tears of sym-pathy and compassion, that they sank deeperinto Oliver's soul, than all the sufferings he hadever undergone.

Early on the seventh morning after he had lefthis native place, Oliver limped slowly into thelittle town of Barnet. The window-shutterswere closed; the street was empty; not a soulhad awakened to the business of the day. Thesun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but thelight only served to show the boy his own lone-someness and desolation, as he sat, with bleed-ing feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.

By degrees, the shutters were opened; the win-dow-blinds were drawn up; and people beganpassing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze atOliver for a moment or two, or turned round tostare at him as they hurried by; but none re-lieved him, or troubled themselves to inquirehow he came there. He had no heart to beg.And there he sat.

He had been crouching on the step for sometime: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tav-ern, large or small), gazing listlessly at thecoaches as they passed through, and thinkinghow strange it seemed that they could do, withease, in a few hours, what it had taken him awhole week of courage and determination be-yond his years to accomplish: when he wasroused by observing that a boy, who hadpassed him carelessly some minutes before,had returned, and was now surveying himmost earnestly from the opposite side of the

way. He took little heed of this at first; but theboy remained in the same attitude of close ob-servation so long, that Oliver raised his head,and returned his steady look. Upon this, theboy crossed over; and walking close up toOliver, said,

'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?'

The boy who addressed this inquiry to theyoung wayfarer, was about his own age: butone of the queerest looking boys that Oliverhad even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and asdirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; buthe had about him all the airs and manners of aman. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat wasstuck on the top of his head so lightly, that itthreatened to fall off every moment—andwould have done so, very often, if the wearerhad not had a knack of every now and thengiving his head a sudden twitch, which

brought it back to its old place again. He wore aman's coat, which reached nearly to his heels.He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up hisarm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: appar-ently with the ultimate view of thrusting theminto the pockets of his corduroy trousers; forthere he kept them. He was, altogether, asroystering and swaggering a young gentlemanas ever stood four feet six, or something less, inthe bluchers.

'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?' said thisstrange young gentleman to Oliver.

'I am very hungry and tired,' replied Oliver: thetears standing in his eyes as he spoke. 'I havewalked a long way. I have been walking theseseven days.'

'Walking for sivin days!' said the young gen-tleman. 'Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But,' headded, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, 'I

suppose you don't know what a beak is, myflash com-pan-i-on.'

Oliver mildly replied, that he had always hearda bird's mouth described by the term in ques-tion.

'My eyes, how green!' exclaimed the younggentleman. 'Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; andwhen you walk by a beak's order, it's notstraight forerd, but always agoing up, and ni-ver a coming down agin. Was you never on themill?'

'What mill?' inquired Oliver.

'What mill! Why, the mill—the mill as takes upso little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug;and always goes better when the wind's lowwith people, than when it's high; acos then theycan't get workmen. But come,' said the younggentleman; 'you want grub, and you shall haveit. I'm at low-water-mark myself—only one bob

and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork outand stump. Up with you on your pins. There!Now then! 'Morrice!'

Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentlemantook him to an adjacent chandler's shop, wherehe purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressedham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himselfexpressed it, 'a fourpenny bran!' the ham beingkept clean and preserved from dust, by the in-genious expedient of making a hole in the loafby pulling out a portion of the crumb, andstuffing it therein. Taking the bread under hisarm, the young gentlman turned into a smallpublic-house, and led the way to a tap-room inthe rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer wasbrought in, by direction of the mysteriousyouth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend'sbidding, made a long and hearty meal, duringthe progress of which the strange boy eyed himfrom time to time with great attention.

'Going to London?' said the strange boy, whenOliver had at length concluded.

'Yes.'

'Got any lodgings?'

'No.'

'Money?'

'No.'

The strange boy whistled; and put his arms intohis pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves wouldlet them go.

'Do you live in London?' inquired Oliver.

'Yes. I do, when I'm at home,' replied the boy. 'Isuppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?'

'I do, indeed,' answered Oliver. 'I have not sleptunder a roof since I left the country.'

'Don't fret your eyelids on that score,' said theyoung gentleman. 'I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman aslives there, wot'll give you lodgings fornothink, and never ask for the change—that is,if any genelman he knows interduces you. Anddon't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! Byno means. Certainly not!'

The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimatethat the latter fragments of discourse wereplayfully ironical; and finished the beer as hedid so.

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempt-ing to be resisted; especially as it was immedi-ately followed up, by the assurance that the oldgentleman referred to, would doubtless pro-vide Oliver with a comfortable place, withoutloss of time. This led to a more friendly and

confidential dialogue; from which Oliver dis-covered that his friend's name was JackDawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet andprotege of the elderly gentleman before men-tioned.

Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vastdeal in favour of the comforts which his pa-tron's interest obtained for those whom he tookunder his protection; but, as he had a ratherflightly and dissolute mode of conversing, andfurthermore avowed that among his intimatefriends he was better known by the sobriquet of'The Artful Dodger,' Oliver concluded that,being of a dissipated and careless turn, themoral precepts of his benefactor had hithertobeen thrown away upon him. Under this im-pression, he secretly resolved to cultivate thegood opinion of the old gentleman as quicklyas possible; and, if he found the Dodger incor-rigible, as he more than half suspected he

should, to decline the honour of his farther ac-quaintance.

As John Dawkins objected to their enteringLondon before nightfall, it was nearly eleveno'clock when they reached the turnpike at Is-lington. They crossed from the Angel into St.John's Road; struck down the small streetwhich terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre;through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row;down the little court by the side of the work-house; across the classic ground which oncebore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thenceinto Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hillthe Great: along which the Dodger scudded at arapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close athis heels.

Although Oliver had enough to occupy his at-tention in keeping sight of his leader, he couldnot help bestowing a few hasty glances on ei-ther side of the way, as he passed along. A dirt-ier or more wretched place he had never seen.

The street was very narrow and muddy, andthe air was impregnated with filthy odours.

There were a good many small shops; but theonly stock in trade appeared to be heaps ofchildren, who, even at that time of night, werecrawling in and out at the doors, or screamingfrom the inside. The sole places that seemed toprosper amid the general blight of the place,were the public-houses; and in them, the lowestorders of Irish were wrangling with might andmain. Covered ways and yards, which here andthere diverged from the main street, disclosedlittle knots of houses, where drunken men andwomen were positively wallowing in filth; andfrom several of the door-ways, great ill-lookingfellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to allappearance, on no very well-disposed or harm-less errands.

Oliver was just considering whether he hadn'tbetter run away, when they reached the bottomof the hill. His conductor, catching him by the

arm, pushed open the door of a house nearField Lane; and drawing him into the passage,closed it behind them.

'Now, then!' cried a voice from below, in replyto a whistle from the Dodger.

'Plummy and slam!' was the reply.

This seemed to be some watchword or signalthat all was right; for the light of a feeble candlegleamed on the wall at the remote end of thepassage; and a man's face peeped out, fromwhere a balustrade of the old kitchen staircasehad been broken away.

'There's two on you,' said the man, thrustingthe candle farther out, and shielding his eyeswith his hand. 'Who's the t'other one?'

'A new pal,' replied Jack Dawkins, pullingOliver forward.

'Where did he come from?'

'Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?'

'Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!' Thecandle was drawn back, and the face disap-peared.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, andhaving the other firmly grasped by his compan-ion, ascended with much difficulty the darkand broken stairs: which his conductormounted with an ease and expedition thatshowed he was well acquainted with them.

He threw open the door of a back-room, anddrew Oliver in after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room were per-fectly black with age and dirt. There was a dealtable before the fire: upon which were a candle,stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pew-ter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a fry-ing-pan, which was on the fire, and which wassecured to the mantelshelf by a string, some

sausages were cooking; and standing overthem, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was avery old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by aquantity of matted red hair. He was dressed ina greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; andseemed to be dividing his attention between thefrying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which agreat number of silk handkerchiefs were hang-ing. Several rough beds made of old sacks,were huddled side by side on the floor. Seatedround the table were four or five boys, noneolder than the Dodger, smoking long claypipes, and drinking spirits with the air of mid-dle-aged men. These all crowded about theirassociate as he whispered a few words to theJew; and then turned round and grinned atOliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork inhand.

'This is him, Fagin,' said Jack Dawkins;'myfriend Oliver Twist.'

The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisanceto Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped heshould have the honour of his intimate ac-quaintance. Upon this, the young gentlemanwith the pipes came round him, and shookboth his hands very hard—especially the one inwhich he held his little bundle. One young gen-tleman was very anxious to hang up his cap forhim; and another was so obliging as to put hishands in his pockets, in order that, as he wasvery tired, he might not have the trouble ofemptying them, himself, when he went to bed.These civilities would probably be extendedmuch farther, but for a liberal exercise of theJew's toasting-fork on the heads and shouldersof the affectionate youths who offered them.

'We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,' saidthe Jew. 'Dodger, take off the sausages; anddraw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you'rea-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, mydear. There are a good many of 'em, ain't there?

We've just looked 'em out, ready for the wash;that's all, Oliver; that's all. Ha! ha! ha!'

The latter part of this speech, was hailed by aboisterous shout from all the hopeful pupils ofthe merry old gentleman. In the midst of whichthey went to supper.

Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixedhim a glass of hot gin-and-water: telling him hemust drink it off directly, because another gen-tleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as hewas desired. Immediately afterwards he felthimself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; andthen he sunk into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER IX

CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARSCONCERNING

THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN,AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS

It was late next morning when Oliver awoke,from a sound, long sleep. There was no otherperson in the room but the old Jew, who wasboiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast,and whistling softly to himself as he stirred itround and round, with an iron spoon. Hewould stop every now and then to listen whenthere was the least noise below: and when hehad satisfied himself, he would go on whistlingand stirring again, as before.

Although Oliver had roused himself fromsleep, he was not thoroughly awake. There is adrowsy state, between sleeping and waking,when you dream more in five minutes withyour eyes half open, and yourself half con-scious of everything that is passing aroundyou, than you would in five nights with youreyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in per-

fect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortalknows just enough of what his mind is doing,to form some glimmering conception of itsmighty powers, its bounding from earth andspurning time and space, when freed from therestraint of its corporeal associate.

Oliver was precisely in this condition. He sawthe Jew with his half-closed eyes; heard his lowwhistling; and recognised the sound of thespoon grating against the saucepan's sides: andyet the self-same senses were mentally en-gaged, at the same time, in busy action withalmost everybody he had ever known.

When the coffee was done, the Jew drew thesaucepan to the hob. Standing, then in an ir-resolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he didnot well know how to employ himself, heturned round and looked at Oliver, and calledhim by his name. He did not answer, and wasto all appearances asleep.

After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jewstepped gently to the door: which he fastened.He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver,from some trap in the floor: a small box, whichhe placed carefully on the table. His eyes glis-tened as he raised the lid, and looked in. Drag-ging an old chair to the table, he sat down; andtook from it a magnificent gold watch, spar-kling with jewels.

'Aha!' said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders,and distorting every feature with a hideousgrin. 'Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to thelast! Never told the old parson where theywere. Never poached upon old Fagin! And whyshould they? It wouldn't have loosened theknot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No,no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!'

With these, and other muttered reflections ofthe like nature, the Jew once more depositedthe watch in its place of safety. At least half adozen more were severally drawn forth from

the same box, and surveyed with equal pleas-ure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, andother articles of jewellery, of such magnificentmaterials, and costly workmanship, that Oliverhad no idea, even of their names.

Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew tookout another: so small that it lay in the palm ofhis hand. There seemed to be some very minuteinscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon thetable, and shading it with his hand, pored overit, long and earnestly. At length he put it down,as if despairing of success; and, leaning back inhis chair, muttered:

'What a fine thing capital punishment is! Deadmen never repent; dead men never bring awk-ward stories to light. Ah, it's a fine thing for thetrade! Five of 'em strung up in a row, and noneleft to play booty, or turn white-livered!'

As the Jew uttered these words, his bright darkeyes, which had been staring vacantly before

him, fell on Oliver's face; the boy's eyes werefixed on his in mute curiousity; and althoughthe recognition was only for an instant—for thebriefest space of time that can possibly be con-ceived—it was enough to show the old manthat he had been observed.

He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash;and, laying his hand on a bread knife whichwas on the table, started furiously up. He trem-bled very much though; for, even in his terror,Oliver could see that the knife quivered in theair.

'What's that?' said the Jew. 'What do you watchme for? Why are you awake? What have youseen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for yourlife.

'I wasn't able to sleep any longer, sir,' repliedOliver, meekly. 'I am very sorry if I have dis-turbed you, sir.'

'You were not awake an hour ago?' said theJew, scowling fiercely on the boy.

'No! No, indeed!' replied Oliver.

'Are you sure?' cried the Jew: with a still fiercerlook than before: and a threatening attitude.

'Upon my word I was not, sir,' replied Oliver,earnestly. 'I was not, indeed, sir.'

'Tush, tush, my dear!' said the Jew, abruptlyresuming his old manner, and playing with theknife a little, before he laid it down; as if to in-duce the belief that he had caught it up, in meresport. 'Of course I know that, my dear. I onlytried to frighten you. You're a brave boy. Ha!ha! you're a brave boy, Oliver.' The Jew rubbedhis hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasilyat the box, notwithstanding.

'Did you see any of these pretty things, mydear?' said the Jew, laying his hand upon itafter a short pause.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Ah!' said the Jew, turning rather pale. 'They—they're mine, Oliver; my little property. All Ihave to live upon, in my old age. The folks callme a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that's all.'

Oliver thought the old gentleman must be adecided miser to live in such a dirty place, withso many watches; but, thinking that perhapshis fondness for the Dodger and the other boys,cost him a good deal of money, he only cast adeferential look at the Jew, and asked if hemight get up.

'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' replied the oldgentleman. 'Stay. There's a pitcher of water inthe corner by the door. Bring it here; and I'llgive you a basin to wash in, my dear.'

Oliver got up; walked across the room; andstooped for an instant to raise the pitcher.When he turned his head, the box was gone.

He had scarcely washed himself, and madeeverything tidy, by emptying the basin out ofthe window, agreeably to the Jew's directions,when the Dodger returned: accompanied by avery sprightly young friend, whom Oliver hadseen smoking on the previous night, and whowas now formally introduced to him as Char-ley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, onthe coffee, and some hot rolls and ham whichthe Dodger had brought home in the crown ofhis hat.

'Well,' said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver,and addressing himself to the Dodger, 'I hopeyou've been at work this morning, my dears?'

'Hard,' replied the Dodger.

'As nails,' added Charley Bates.

'Good boys, good boys!' said the Jew. 'Whathave you got, Dodger?'

'A couple of pocket-books,' replied that younggentlman.

'Lined?' inquired the Jew, with eagerness.

'Pretty well,' replied the Dodger, producingtwo pocket-books; one green, and the other red.

'Not so heavy as they might be,' said the Jew,after looking at the insides carefully; 'but veryneat and nicely made. Ingenious workman,ain't he, Oliver?'

'Very indeed, sir,' said Oliver. At which Mr.Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very muchto the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothingto laugh at, in anything that had passed.

'And what have you got, my dear?' said Faginto Charley Bates.

'Wipes,' replied Master Bates; at the same timeproducing four pocket-handkerchiefs.

'Well,' said the Jew, inspecting them closely;'they're very good ones, very. You haven'tmarked them well, though, Charley; so themarks shall be picked out with a needle, andwe'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver,eh? Ha! ha! ha!'

'If you please, sir,' said Oliver.

'You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, would-n't you, my dear?' said the Jew.

'Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir,' re-plied Oliver.

Master Bates saw something so exquisitely lu-dicrous in this reply, that he burst into anotherlaugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he wasdrinking, and carrying it down some wrong

channel, very nearly terminated in his prema-ture suffocation.

'He is so jolly green!' said Charley when he re-covered, as an apology to the company for hisunpolite behaviour.

The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothedOliver's hair over his eyes, and said he'd knowbetter, by and by; upon which the old gentle-man, observing Oliver's colour mounting,changed the subject by asking whether therehad been much of a crowd at the execution thatmorning? This made him wonder more andmore; for it was plain from the replies of thetwo boys that they had both been there; andOliver naturally wondered how they couldpossibly have found time to be so very indus-trious.

When the breakfast was cleared away; themerry old gentlman and the two boys played ata very curious and uncommon game, which

was performed in this way. The merry old gen-tleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of histrousers, a note-case in the other, and a watchin his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chainround his neck, and sticking a mock diamondpin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight roundhim, and putting his spectacle-case and hand-kerchief in his pockets, trotted up and downthe room with a stick, in imitation of the man-ner in which old gentlemen walk about thestreets any hour in the day. Sometimes hestopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at thedoor, making believe that he was staring withall his might into shop-windows. At such times,he would look constantly round him, for fear ofthieves, and would keep slapping all his pock-ets in turn, to see that he hadn't lost anything,in such a very funny and natural manner, thatOliver laughed till the tears ran down his face.All this time, the two boys followed him closelyabout: getting out of his sight, so nimbly, everytime he turned round, that it was impossible to

follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trodupon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently,while Charley Bates stumbled up against himbehind; and in that one moment they took fromhim, with the most extraordinary rapidity,snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentlman felt a hand in any oneof his pockets, he cried out where it was; andthen the game began all over again.

When this game had been played a great manytimes, a couple of young ladies called to see theyoung gentleman; one of whom was namedBet, and the other Nancy. They wore a gooddeal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind,and were rather untidy about the shoes andstockings. They were not exactly pretty, per-haps; but they had a great deal of colour intheir faces, and looked quite stout and hearty.Being remarkably free and agreeable in their

manners, Oliver thought them very nice girlsindeed. As there is no doubt they were.

The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits wereproduced, in consequence of one of the youngladies complaining of a coldness in her inside;and the conversation took a very convivial andimproving turn. At length, Charley Bates ex-pressed his opinion that it was time to pad thehoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, must be Frenchfor going out; for directly afterwards, theDodger, and Charley, and the two young la-dies, went away together, having been kindlyfurnished by the amiable old Jew with moneyto spend.

'There, my dear,' said Fagin. 'That's a pleasantlife, isn't it? They have gone out for the day.'

'Have they done work, sir?' inquired Oliver.

'Yes,' said the Jew; 'that is, unless they shouldunexpectedly come across any, when they are

out; and they won't neglect it, if they do, mydear, depend upon it. Make 'em your models,my dear. Make 'em your models,' tapping thefire-shovel on the hearth to add force to hiswords; 'do everything they bid you, and taketheir advice in all matters—especially theDodger's, my dear. He'll be a great man him-self, and will make you one too, if you takepattern by him.—Is my handkerchief hangingout of my pocket, my dear?' said the Jew, stop-ping short.

'Yes, sir,' said Oliver.

'See if you can take it out, without my feeling it;as you saw them do, when we were at play thismorning.'

Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket withone hand, as he had seen the Dodger hold it,and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it withthe other.

'Is it gone?' cried the Jew.

'Here it is, sir,' said Oliver, showing it in hishand.

'You're a clever boy, my dear,' said the playfulold gentleman, patting Oliver on the head ap-provingly. 'I never saw a sharper lad. Here's ashilling for you. If you go on, in this way, you'llbe the greatest man of the time. And now comehere, and I'll show you how to take the marksout of the handkerchiefs.'

Oliver wondered what picking the old gentle-man's pocket in play, had to do with hischances of being a great man. But, thinking thatthe Jew, being so much his senior, must knowbest, he followed him quietly to the table, andwas soon deeply involved in his new study.

CHAPTER X

OLIVER BECOMES BETTER AC-QUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERSOF HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PUR-CHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE.BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANTCHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY

For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew'sroom, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number werebrought home,) and sometimes taking part inthe game already described: which the twoboys and the Jew played, regularly, everymorning. At length, he began to languish forfresh air, and took many occasions of earnestlyentreating the old gentleman to allow him to goout to work with his two companions.

Oliver was rendered the more anxious to beactively employed, by what he had seen of the

stern morality of the old gentleman's character.Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates camehome at night, empty-handed, he would expa-tiate with great vehemence on the misery ofidle and lazy habits; and would enforce uponthem the necessity of an active life, by sendingthem supperless to bed. On one occasion, in-deed, he even went so far as to knock themboth down a flight of stairs; but this was carry-ing out his virtuous precepts to an unusualextent.

At length, one morning, Oliver obtained thepermission he had so eagerly sought. There hadbeen no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two orthree days, and the dinners had been rathermeagre. Perhaps these were reasons for the oldgentleman's giving his assent; but, whetherthey were or no, he told Oliver he might go,and placed him under the joint guardianship ofCharley Bates, and his friend the Dodger.

The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with hiscoat-sleeves tucked up, and his hat cocked, asusual; Master Bates sauntering along with hishands in his pockets; and Oliver between them,wondering where they were going, and whatbranch of manufacture he would be instructedin, first.

The pace at which they went, was such a verylazy, ill-looking saunter, that Oliver soon beganto think his companions were going to deceivethe old gentleman, by not going to work at all.The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, ofpulling the caps from the heads of small boysand tossing them down areas; while CharleyBates exhibited some very loose notions con-cerning the rights of property, by pilfering di-vers apples and onions from the stalls at thekennel sides, and thrusting them into pocketswhich were so surprisingly capacious, that theyseemed to undermine his whole suit of clothesin every direction. These things looked so bad,

that Oliver was on the point of declaring hisintention of seeking his way back, in the bestway he could; when his thoughts were sud-denly directed into another channel, by a verymysterious change of behaviour on the part ofthe Dodger.

They were just emerging from a narrow courtnot far from the open square in Clerkenwell,which is yet called, by some strange perversionof terms, 'The Green': when the Dodger made asudden stop; and, laying his finger on his lip,drew his companions back again, with thegreatest caution and circumspection.

'What's the matter?' demanded Oliver.

'Hush!' replied the Dodger. 'Do you see that oldcove at the book-stall?'

'The old gentleman over the way?' said Oliver.'Yes, I see him.'

'He'll do,' said the Doger.

'A prime plant,' observed Master Charley Bates.

Oliver looked from one to the other, with thegreatest surprise; but he was not permitted tomake any inquiries; for the two boys walkedstealthily across the road, and slunk close be-hind the old gentleman towards whom his at-tention had been directed. Oliver walked a fewpaces after them; and, not knowing whether toadvance or retire, stood looking on in silentamazement.

The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head andgold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar; worewhite trousers; and carried a smart bamboocane under his arm. He had taken up a bookfrom the stall, and there he stood, readingaway, as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair,in his own study. It is very possible that he fan-

cied himself there, indeed; for it was plain,from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short,anything but the book itself: which he wasreading straight through: turning over the leafwhen he got to the bottom of a page, beginningat the top line of the next one, and going regu-larly on, with the greatest interest and eager-ness.

What was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stooda few paces off, looking on with his eyelids aswide open as they would possibly go, to see theDodger plunge his hand into the old gentle-man's pocket, and draw from thence a hand-kerchief! To see him hand the same to CharleyBates; and finally to behold them, both runningaway round the corner at full speed!

In an instant the whole mystery of the hanker-chiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and theJew, rushed upon the boy's mind.

He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tin-gling through all his veins from terror, that hefelt as if he were in a burning fire; then, con-fused and frightened, he took to his heels; and,not knowing what he did, made off as fast as hecould lay his feet to the ground.

This was all done in a minute's space. In thevery instant when Oliver began to run, the oldgentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, andmissing his handkerchief, turned sharp round.Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapidpace, he very naturally concluded him to be thedepredator; and shouting 'Stop thief!' with allhis might, made off after him, book in hand.

But the old gentleman was not the only personwho raised the hue-and-cry. The Dodger andMaster Bates, unwilling to attract public atten-tion by running down the open street, hadmerely retired into the very first doorwayround the corner. They no sooner heard the cry,and saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly

how the matter stood, they issued forth withgreat promptitude; and, shouting 'Stop thief!'too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens.

Although Oliver had been brought up by phi-losophers, he was not theoretically acquaintedwith the beautiful axiom that self-preservationis the first law of nature. If he had been, per-haps he would have been prepared for this. Notbeing prepared, however, it alarmed him themore; so away he went like the wind, with theold gentleman and the two boys roaring andshouting behind him.

'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a magic in thesound. The tradesman leaves his counter, andthe car-man his waggon; the butcher throwsdown his tray; the baker his basket; the milk-man his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; theschool-boy his marbles; the paviour his pick-axe; the child his battledore. Away they run,pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yell-ing, screaming, knocking down the passengers

as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs,and astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares,and courts, re-echo with the sound.

'Stop thief! Stop thief!' The cry is taken up by ahundred voices, and the crowd accumulate atevery turning. Away they fly, splashingthrough the mud, and rattling along the pave-ments: up go the windows, out run the people,onward bear the mob, a whole audience desertPunch in the very thickest of the plot, and, join-ing the rushing throng, swell the shout, andlend fresh vigour to the cry, 'Stop thief! Stopthief!'

'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a passion FORhunting something deeply implanted in the hu-man breast. One wretched breathless child,panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks;agony in his eyes; large drops of perspirationstreaming down his face; strains every nerve tomake head upon his pursuers; and as they fol-low on his track, and gain upon him every in-

stant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy.'Stop thief!' Ay, stop him for God's sake, were itonly in mercy!

Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is downupon the pavement; and the crowd eagerlygather round him: each new comer, jostling andstruggling with the others to catch a glimpse.'Stand aside!' 'Give him a little air!' 'Nonsense!he don't deserve it.' 'Where's the gentleman?''Here his is, coming down the street.' 'Makeroom there for the gentleman!' 'Is this the boy,sir!' 'Yes.'

Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, andbleeding from the mouth, looking wildly roundupon the heap of faces that surrounded him,when the old gentleman was officiouslydragged and pushed into the circle by theforemost of the pursuers.

'Yes,' said the gentleman, 'I am afraid it is theboy.'

'Afraid!' murmured the crowd. 'That's a good'un!'

'Poor fellow!' said the gentleman, 'he has hurthimself.'

'I did that, sir,' said a great lubberly fellow,stepping forward; 'and preciously I cut myknuckle agin' his mouth. I stopped him, sir.'

The follow touched his hat with a grin, expect-ing something for his pains; but, the old gen-tleman, eyeing him with an expression of dis-like, look anxiously round, as if he contem-plated running away himself: which it is verypossible he might have attempted to do, andthus have afforded another chase, had not apolice officer (who is generally the last personto arrive in such cases) at that moment madehis way through the crowd, and seized Oliverby the collar.

'Come, get up,' said the man, roughly.

'It wasn't me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it wastwo other boys,' said Oliver, clasping his handspassionately, and looking round. 'They are heresomewhere.'

'Oh no, they ain't,' said the officer. He meantthis to be ironical, but it was true besides; forthe Dodger and Charley Bates had filed offdown the first convenient court they came to.

'Come, get up!'

'Don't hurt him,' said the old gentleman, com-passionately.

'Oh no, I won't hurt him,' replied the officer,tearing his jacket half off his back, in proofthereof. 'Come, I know you; it won't do. Willyou stand upon your legs, you young devil?'

Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift toraise himself on his feet, and was at oncelugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at

a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on withthem by the officer's side; and as many of thecrowd as could achieve the feat, got a littleahead, and stared back at Oliver from time totime. The boys shouted in triumph; and on theywent.

CHAPTER XI

TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICEMAGISTRATE;AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OFHIS MODEOF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE

The offence had been committed within thedistrict, and indeed in the immediate neighbor-hood of, a very notorious metropolitan policeoffice. The crowd had only the satisfaction ofaccompanying Oliver through two or three

streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill,when he was led beneath a low archway, andup a dirty court, into this dispensary of sum-mary justice, by the back way. It was a smallpaved yard into which they turned; and herethey encountered a stout man with a bunch ofwhiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in hishand.

'What's the matter now?' said the man care-lessly.

'A young fogle-hunter,' replied the man whohad Oliver in charge.

'Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?' in-quired the man with the keys.

'Yes, I am,' replied the old gentleman; 'but I amnot sure that this boy actually took the hand-kerchief. I—I would rather not press the case.'

'Must go before the magistrate now, sir,' repliedthe man. 'His worship will be disengaged inhalf a minute. Now, young gallows!'

This was an invitation for Oliver to enterthrough a door which he unlocked as he spoke,and which led into a stone cell. Here he wassearched; and nothing being found upon him,locked up.

This cell was in shape and size something likean area cellar, only not so light. It was mostintolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning;and it had been tenanted by six drunken peo-ple, who had been locked up, elsewhere, sinceSaturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night con-fined on the most trivial charges—the word isworth noting—in dungeons, compared withwhich, those in Newgate, occupied by the mostatrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and undersentence of death, are palaces. Let any one whodoubts this, compare the two.

The old gentleman looked almost as rueful asOliver when the key grated in the lock. Heturned with a sigh to the book, which had beenthe innocent cause of all this disturbance.

'There is something in that boy's face,' said theold gentleman to himself as he walked slowlyaway, tapping his chin with the cover of thebook, in a thoughtful manner; 'something thattouches and interests me. Can he be innocent?He looked like—Bye the bye,' exclaimed the oldgentleman, halting very abruptly, and staringup into the sky, 'Bless my soul!—where have Iseen something like that look before?'

After musing for some minutes, the old gen-tleman walked, with the same meditative face,into a back anteroom opening from the yard;and there, retiring into a corner, called up be-fore his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre of facesover which a dusky curtain had hung for manyyears. 'No,' said the old gentleman, shaking hishead; 'it must be imagination.

He wandered over them again. He had calledthem into view, and it was not easy to replacethe shroud that had so long concealed them.There were the faces of friends, and foes, and ofmany that had been almost strangers peeringintrusively from the crowd; there were thefaces of young and blooming girls that werenow old women; there were faces that thegrave had changed and closed upon, but whichthe mind, superior to its power, still dressed intheir old freshness and beauty, calling back thelustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile,the beaming of the soul through its mask ofclay, and whispering of beauty beyond thetomb, changed but to be heightened, and takenfrom earth only to be set up as a light, to shed asoft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no onecountenance of which Oliver's features bore atrace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollec-tions he awakened; and being, happily for him-

self, an absent old gentleman, buried themagain in the pages of the musty book.

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, anda request from the man with the keys to followhim into the office. He closed his book hastily;and was at once ushered into the imposingpresence of the renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a panelledwall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upperend; and on one side the door was a sort ofwooden pen in which poor little Oliver wasalready deposited; trembling very much at theawfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked,middle-sized man, with no great quantity ofhair, and what he had, growing on the backand sides of his head. His face was stern, andmuch flushed. If he were really not in the habitof drinking rather more than was exactly goodfor him, he might have brought action against

his countenance for libel, and have recoveredheavy damages.

The old gentleman bowed respectfully; andadvancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suitingthe action to the word, 'That is my name andaddress, sir.' He then withdrew a pace or two;and, with another polite and gentlemanly incli-nation of the head, waited to be questioned.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at thatmoment perusing a leading article in a news-paper of the morning, adverting to some recentdecision of his, and commending him, for thethree hundred and fiftieth time, to the specialand particular notice of the Secretary of Statefor the Home Department. He was out of tem-per; and he looked up with an angry scowl.

'Who are you?' said Mr. Fang.

The old gentleman pointed, with some sur-prise, to his card.

'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, tossing the card con-temptuously away with the newspaper. 'Who isthis fellow?'

'My name, sir,' said the old gentleman, speak-ing like a gentleman, 'my name, sir, isBrownlow. Permit me to inquire the name ofthe magistrate who offers a gratuitous and un-provoked insult to a respectable person, underthe protection of the bench.' Saying this, Mr.Brownlow looked around the office as if insearch of some person who would afford himthe required information.

'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper onone side, 'what's this fellow charged with?'

'He's not charged at all, your worship,' repliedthe officer. 'He appears against this boy, yourworship.'

His worship knew this perfectly well; but itwas a good annoyance, and a safe one.

'Appears against the boy, does he?' said Mr.Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptu-ously from head to foot. 'Swear him!'

'Before I am sworn, I must beg to say oneword,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'and that is, that Ireally never, without actual experience, couldhave believed—'

'Hold your tongue, sir!' said Mr. Fang, peremp-torily.

'I will not, sir!' replied the old gentleman.

'Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have youturned out of the office!' said Mr. Fang. 'You'rean insolent impertinent fellow. How dare youbully a magistrate!'

'What!' exclaimed the old gentleman, redden-ing.

'Swear this person!' said Fang to the clerk. 'I'llnot hear another word. Swear him.'

Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatlyroused; but reflecting perhaps, that he mightonly injure the boy by giving vent to it, he sup-pressed his feelings and submitted to be swornat once.

'Now,' said Fang, 'what's the charge against thisboy? What have you got to say, sir?'

'I was standing at a bookstall—' Mr. Brownlowbegan.

'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Mr. Fang. 'Police-man! Where's the policeman? Here, swear thispoliceman. Now, policeman, what is this?'

The policeman, with becoming humility, re-lated how he had taken the charge; how he hadsearched Oliver, and found nothing on his per-son; and how that was all he knew about it.

'Are there any witnesses?' inquired Mr. Fang.

'None, your worship,' replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then,turning round to the prosecutor, said in a tow-ering passion.

'Do you mean to state what your complaintagainst this boy is, man, or do you not? Youhave been sworn. Now, if you stand there, re-fusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for dis-respect to the bench; I will, by—'

By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for theclerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at theright moment; and the former dropped a heavybook upon the floor, thus preventing the wordfrom being heard—accidently, of course.

With many interruptions, and repeated insults,Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; ob-serving that, in the surprise of the moment, hehad run after the boy because he had saw himrunning away; and expressing his hope that, ifthe magistrate should believe him, althoughnot actually the thief, to be connected with the

thieves, he would deal as leniently with him asjustice would allow.

'He has been hurt already,' said the old gentle-man in conclusion. 'And I fear,' he added, withgreat energy, looking towards the bar, 'I reallyfear that he is ill.'

'Oh! yes, I dare say!' said Mr. Fang, with asneer. 'Come, none of your tricks here, youyoung vagabond; they won't do. What's yourname?'

Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him.He was deadly pale; and the whole placeseemed turning round and round.

'What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?'demanded Mr. Fang. 'Officer, what's his name?'

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in astriped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar.He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry;

but finding him really incapable of understand-ing the question; and knowing that his not re-plying would only infuriate the magistrate themore, and add to the severity of his sentence;he hazarded a guess.

'He says his name's Tom White, your worship,'said the kind-hearted thief-taker.

'Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?' said Fang.'Very well, very well. Where does he live?'

'Where he can, your worship,' replied the offi-cer; again pretending to receive Oliver's an-swer.

'Has he any parents?' inquired Mr. Fang.

'He says they died in his infancy, your wor-ship,' replied the officer: hazarding the usualreply.

At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised hishead; and, looking round with imploring eyes,

murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of wa-ter.

'Stuff and nonsense!' said Mr. Fang: 'don't try tomake a fool of me.'

'I think he really is ill, your worship,' remon-strated the officer.

'I know better,' said Mr. Fang.

'Take care of him, officer,' said the old gentle-man, raising his hands instinctively; 'he'll falldown.'

'Stand away, officer,' cried Fang; 'let him, if helikes.'

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission,and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men inthe office looked at each other, but no onedared to stir.

'I knew he was shamming,' said Fang, as if thiswere incontestable proof of the fact. 'Let him liethere; he'll soon be tired of that.'

'How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?'inquired the clerk in a low voice.

'Summarily,' replied Mr. Fang. 'He standscommitted for three months—hard labour ofcourse. Clear the office.'

The door was opened for this purpose, and acouple of men were preparing to carry the in-sensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man ofdecent but poor appearance, clad in an old suitof black, rushed hastily into the office, and ad-vanced towards the bench.

'Stop, stop! don't take him away! For Heaven'ssake stop a moment!' cried the new comer,breathless with haste.

Although the presiding Genii in such an officeas this, exercise a summary and arbitrarypower over the liberties, the good name, thecharacter, almost the lives, of Her Majesty'ssubjects, expecially of the poorer class; and al-though, within such walls, enough fantastictricks are daily played to make the angels blindwith weeping; they are closed to the public,save through the medium of the dailypress.[Footnote: Or were virtually, then.] Mr.Fang was consequently not a little indignant tosee an unbidden guest enter in such irreverentdisorder.

'What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out.Clear the office!' cried Mr. Fang.

'I will speak,' cried the man; 'I will not be turnedout. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demandto be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang,you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.'

The man was right. His manner was deter-mined; and the matter was growing rather tooserious to be hushed up.

'Swear the man,' growled Mr. Fang, with a veryill grace. 'Now, man, what have you got to say?'

'This,' said the man: 'I saw three boys: two oth-ers and the prisoner here: loitering on the op-posite side of the way, when this gentlemanwas reading. The robbery was committed byanother boy. I saw it done; and I saw that thisboy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.'Having by this time recovered a little breath,the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to re-late, in a more coherent manner the exact cir-cumstances of the robbery.

'Why didn't you come here before?' said Fang,after a pause.

'I hadn't a soul to mind the shop,' replied theman. 'Everybody who could have helped me,

had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobodytill five minutes ago; and I've run here all theway.'

'The prosecutor was reading, was he?' inquiredFang, after another pause.

'Yes,' replied the man. 'The very book he has inhis hand.'

'Oh, that book, eh?' said Fang. 'Is it paid for?'

'No, it is not,' replied the man, with a smile.

'Dear me, I forgot all about it!' exclaimed theabsent old gentleman, innocently.

'A nice person to prefer a charge against a poorboy!' said Fang, with a comical effort to lookhumane. 'I consider, sir, that you have obtainedpossession of that book, under very suspiciousand disreputable circumstances; and you maythink yourself very fortunate that the owner ofthe property declines to prosecute. Let this be a

lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtakeyou yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!'

'D—n me!' cried the old gentleman, burstingout with the rage he had kept down so long,'d—n me! I'll—'

'Clear the office!' said the magistrate. 'Officers,do you hear? Clear the office!'

The mandate was obeyed; and the indignantMr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with thebook in one hand, and the bamboo cane in theother: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.He reached the yard; and his passion vanishedin a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his backon the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned,and his temples bathed with water; his face adeadly white; and a cold tremble convulsinghis whole frame.

'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, bend-ing over him. 'Call a coach, somebody, pray.Directly!'

A coach was obtained, and Oliver having beencarefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman gotin and sat himself on the other.

'May I accompany you?' said the book-stallkeeper, looking in.

'Bless me, yes, my dear sir,' said Mr. Brownlowquickly. 'I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have thisunhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow!There's no time to lose.'

The book-stall keeper got into the coach; andaway they drove.

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTERCARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE.AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE RE-VERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMANAND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.

The coach rattled away, over nearly the sameground as that which Oliver had traversedwhen he first entered London in company withthe Dodger; and, turning a different way whenit reached the Angel at Islington, stopped atlength before a neat house, in a quiet shadystreet near Pentonville. Here, a bed was pre-pared, without loss of time, in which Mr.Brownlow saw his young charge carefully andcomfortably deposited; and here, he wastended with a kindness and solicitude thatknew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensibleto all the goodness of his new friends. The sunrose and sank, and rose and sank again, andmany times after that; and still the boy laystretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling awaybeneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. Theworm does not work more surely on the deadbody, than does this slow creeping fire uponthe living frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at lastfrom what seemed to have been a long andtroubled dream. Feebly raising himself in thebed, with his head resting on his tremblingarm, he looked anxiously around.

'What room is this? Where have I been broughtto?' said Oliver. 'This is not the place I went tosleep in.'

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, beingvery faint and weak; but they were overheardat once. The curtain at the bed's head was hast-

ily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, veryneatly and precisely dressed, rose as she un-drew it, from an arm-chair close by, in whichshe had been sitting at needle-work.

'Hush, my dear,' said the old lady softly. 'Youmust be very quiet, or you will be ill again; andyou have been very bad,—as bad as bad couldbe, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!'With those words, the old lady very gentlyplaced Oliver's head upon the pillow; and,smoothing back his hair from his forehead,looked so kindly and loving in his face, that hecould not help placing his little withered handin hers, and drawing it round his neck.

'Save us!' said the old lady, with tears in hereyes. 'What a grateful little dear it is. Prettycreetur! What would his mother feel if she hadsat by him as I have, and could see him now!'

'Perhaps she does see me,' whispered Oliver,folding his hands together; 'perhaps she has satby me. I almost feel as if she had.'

'That was the fever, my dear,' said the old ladymildly.

'I suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'becauseheaven is a long way off; and they are toohappy there, to come down to the bedside of apoor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she musthave pitied me, even there; for she was very illherself before she died. She can't know any-thing about me though,' added Oliver after amoment's silence. 'If she had seen me hurt, itwould have made her sorrowful; and her facehas always looked sweet and happy, when Ihave dreamed of her.'

The old lady made no reply to this; but wipingher eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay onthe counterpane, afterwards, as if they werepart and parcel of those features, brought some

cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, pattinghim on the cheek, told him he must lie veryquiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he wasanxious to obey the kind old lady in all things;and partly, to tell the truth, because he wascompletely exhausted with what he had al-ready said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, fromwhich he was awakened by the light of a can-dle: which, being brought near the bed, showedhim a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt hispulse, and said he was a great deal better.

'You are a great deal better, are you not, mydear?' said the gentleman.

'Yes, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Yes, I know you are,' said the gentleman:'You're hungry too, an't you?'

'No, sir,' answered Oliver.

'Hem!' said the gentleman. 'No, I know you'renot. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,' said thegentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination ofthe head, which seemed to say that she thoughtthe doctor was a very clever man. The doctorappeared much of the same opinion himself.

'You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?' said thedoctor.

'No, sir,' replied Oliver.

'No,' said the doctor, with a very shrewd andsatisfied look. 'You're not sleepy. Nor thirsty.Are you?'

'Yes, sir, rather thirsty,' answered Oliver.

'Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,' said the doc-tor. 'It's very natural that he should be thirsty.

You may give him a little tea, ma'am, and somedry toast without any butter. Don't keep himtoo warm, ma'am; but be careful that you don'tlet him be too cold; will you have the good-ness?'

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor,after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing aqualified approval of it, hurried away: his bootscreaking in a very important and wealthy man-ner as he went downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when heawoke, it was nearly twelve o'clock. The oldlady tenderly bade him good-night shortly af-terwards, and left him in charge of a fat oldwoman who had just come: bringing with her,in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and alarge nightcap. Putting the latter on her headand the former on the table, the old woman,after telling Oliver that she had come to sit upwith him, drew her chair close to the fire andwent off into a series of short naps, chequered

at frequent intervals with sundry tumblingsforward, and divers moans and chokings.These, however, had no worse effect than caus-ing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fallasleep again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver layawake for some time, counting the little circlesof light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing withhis languid eyes the intricate pattern of the pa-per on the wall. The darkness and the deepstillness of the room were very solemn; as theybrought into the boy's mind the thought thatdeath had been hovering there, for many daysand nights, and might yet fill it with the gloomand dread of his awful presence, he turned hisface upon the pillow, and fervently prayed toHeaven.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleepwhich ease from recent suffering alone imparts;that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to

wake from. Who, if this were death, would beroused again to all the struggles and turmoilsof life; to all its cares for the present; its anxie-ties for the future; more than all, its weary rec-ollections of the past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliveropened his eyes; he felt cheerful and happy.The crisis of the disease was safely past. Hebelonged to the world again.

In three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up with pillows; and, as hewas still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin hadhim carried downstairs into the little house-keeper's room, which belonged to her. Havinghim set, here, by the fire-side, the good old ladysat herself down too; and, being in a state ofconsiderable delight at seeing him so muchbetter, forthwith began to cry most violently.

'Never mind me, my dear,' said the old lady;'I'm only having a regular good cry. There; it'sall over now; and I'm quite comfortable.'

'You're very, very kind to me, ma'am,' saidOliver.

'Well, never you mind that, my dear,' said theold lady; 'that's got nothing to do with yourbroth; and it's full time you had it; for the doc-tor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see youthis morning; and we must get up our bestlooks, because the better we look, the more he'llbe pleased.' And with this, the old lady appliedherself to warming up, in a little saucepan, abasin full of broth: strong enough, Oliverthought, to furnish an ample dinner, when re-duced to the regulation strength, for three hun-dred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computa-tion.

'Are you fond of pictures, dear?' inquired theold lady, seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes,

most intently, on a portrait which hung againstthe wall; just opposite his chair.

'I don't quite know, ma'am,' said Oliver, with-out taking his eyes from the canvas; 'I haveseen so few that I hardly know. What a beauti-ful, mild face that lady's is!'

'Ah!' said the old lady, 'painters always makeladies out prettier than they are, or theywouldn't get any custom, child. The man thatinvented the machine for taking likenessesmight have known that would never succeed;it's a deal too honest. A deal,' said the old lady,laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.

'Is—is that a likeness, ma'am?' said Oliver.

'Yes,' said the old lady, looking up for a mo-ment from the broth; 'that's a portrait.'

'Whose, ma'am?' asked Oliver.

'Why, really, my dear, I don't know,' answeredthe old lady in a good-humoured manner. 'It'snot a likeness of anybody that you or I know, Iexpect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.'

'It is so pretty,' replied Oliver.

'Why, sure you're not afraid of it?' said the oldlady: observing in great surprise, the look ofawe with which the child regarded the paint-ing.

'Oh no, no,' returned Oliver quickly; 'but theeyes look so sorrowful; and where I sit, theyseem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,'added Oliver in a low voice, 'as if it was alive,and wanted to speak to me, but couldn't.'

'Lord save us!' exclaimed the old lady, starting;'don't talk in that way, child. You're weak andnervous after your illness. Let me wheel yourchair round to the other side; and then youwon't see it. There!' said the old lady, suiting

the action to the word; 'you don't see it now, atall events.'

Oliver did see it in his mind's eye as distinctlyas if he had not altered his position; but hethought it better not to worry the kind old lady;so he smiled gently when she looked at him;and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt morecomfortable, salted and broke bits of toastedbread into the broth, with all the bustle befit-ting so solemn a preparation. Oliver gotthrough it with extraordinary expedition. Hehad scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, whenthere came a soft rap at the door. 'Come in,'said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk asneed be; but, he had no sooner raised his spec-tacles on his forehead, and thrust his handsbehind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take agood long look at Oliver, than his countenanceunderwent a very great variety of odd contor-tions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy

from sickness, and made an ineffectual attemptto stand up, out of respect to his benefactor,which terminated in his sinking back into thechair again; and the fact is, if the truth must betold, that Mr. Brownlow's heart, being largeenough for any six ordinary old gentlemen ofhumane disposition, forced a supply of tearsinto his eyes, by some hydraulic process whichwe are not sufficiently philosophical to be in acondition to explain.

'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, clear-ing his throat. 'I'm rather hoarse this morning,Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold.'

'I hope not, sir,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Everythingyou have had, has been well aired, sir.'

'I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know,' said Mr.Brownlow; 'I rather think I had a damp napkinat dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that.How do you feel, my dear?'

'Very happy, sir,' replied Oliver. 'And verygrateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me.'

'Good by,' said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. 'Haveyou given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Anyslops, eh?'

'He has just had a basin of beautiful strongbroth, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing her-self up slightly, and laying strong emphasis onthe last word: to intimate that between slops,and broth will compounded, there existed noaffinity or connection whatsoever.

'Ugh!' said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shud-der; 'a couple of glasses of port wine wouldhave done him a great deal more good. Would-n't they, Tom White, eh?'

'My name is Oliver, sir,' replied the little inva-lid: with a look of great astonishment.

'Oliver,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'Oliver what?Oliver White, eh?'

'No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.'

'Queer name!' said the old gentleman. 'Whatmade you tell the magistrate your name wasWhite?'

'I never told him so, sir,' returned Oliver inamazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the oldgentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver'sface. It was impossible to doubt him; there wastruth in every one of its thin and sharpenedlineaments.

'Some mistake,' said Mr. Brownlow. But, al-though his motive for looking steadily at Oliverno longer existed, the old idea of the resem-blance between his features and some familiar

face came upon him so strongly, that he couldnot withdraw his gaze.

'I hope you are not angry with me, sir?' saidOliver, raising his eyes beseechingly.

'No, no,' replied the old gentleman. 'Why!what's this? Bedwin, look there!'

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the pictureover Oliver's head, and then to the boy's face.There was its living copy. The eyes, the head,the mouth; every feature was the same. Theexpression was, for the instant, so preciselyalike, that the minutest line seemed copied withstartling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden ex-clamation; for, not being strong enough to bearthe start it gave him, he fainted away. A weak-ness on his part, which affords the narrative anopportunity of relieving the reader from sus-

pense, in behalf of the two young pupils of theMerry Old Gentleman; and of recording—

That when the Dodger, and his accomplishedfriend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-crywhich was raised at Oliver's heels, in conse-quence of their executing an illegal conveyanceof Mr. Brownlow's personal property, as hasbeen already described, they were actuated bya very laudable and becoming regard for them-selves; and forasmuch as the freedom of thesubject and the liberty of the individual areamong the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg thereader to observe, that this action should tendto exalt them in the opinion of all public andpatriotic men, in almost as great a degree asthis strong proof of their anxiety for their ownpreservation and safety goes to corroborate andconfirm the little code of laws which certainprofound and sound-judging philosophershave laid down as the main-springs of all Na-

ture's deeds and actions: the said philosophersvery wisely reducing the good lady's proceed-ings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by avery neat and pretty compliment to her exaltedwisdom and understanding, putting entirelyout of sight any considerations of heart, or gen-erous impulse and feeling. For, these are mat-ters totally beneath a female who is acknowl-edged by universal admission to be far abovethe numerous little foibles and weaknesses ofher sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly phi-losophical nature of the conduct of these younggentlemen in their very delicate predicament, Ishould at once find it in the fact (also recordedin a foregoing part of this narrative), of theirquitting the pursuit, when the general attentionwas fixed upon Oliver; and making immedi-ately for their home by the shortest possiblecut. Although I do not mean to assert that it isusually the practice of renowned and learned

sages, to shorten the road to any great conclu-sion (their course indeed being rather tolengthen the distance, by various circumlocu-tions and discursive staggerings, like untothose in which drunken men under the pres-sure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone toindulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say dis-tinctly, that it is the invariable practice of manymighty philosophers, in carrying out their theo-ries, to evince great wisdom and foresight inproviding against every possible contingencywhich can be supposed at all likely to affectthemselves. Thus, to do a great right, you maydo a little wrong; and you may take any meanswhich the end to be attained, will justify; theamount of the right, or the amount of thewrong, or indeed the distinction between thetwo, being left entirely to the philosopher con-cerned, to be settled and determined by hisclear, comprehensive, and impartial view of hisown particular case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, withgreat rapidity, through a most intricate maze ofnarrow streets and courts, that they ventured tohalt beneath a low and dark archway. Havingremained silent here, just long enough to re-cover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered anexclamation of amusement and delight; and,bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter,flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolledthereon in a transport of mirth.

'What's the matter?' inquired the Dodger.

'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Charley Bates.

'Hold your noise,' remonstrated the Dodger,looking cautiously round. 'Do you want to begrabbed, stupid?'

'I can't help it,' said Charley, 'I can't help it! Tosee him splitting away at that pace, and cuttinground the corners, and knocking up again' theposts, and starting on again as if he was made

of iron as well as them, and me with the wipein my pocket, singing out arter him—oh, myeye!' The vivid imagination of Master Batespresented the scene before him in too strongcolours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, heagain rolled upon the door-step, and laughedlouder than before.

'What'll Fagin say?' inquired the Dodger; takingadvantage of the next interval of breathlessnesson the part of his friend to propound the ques-tion.

'What?' repeated Charley Bates.

'Ah, what?' said the Dodger.

'Why, what should he say?' inquired Charley:stopping rather suddenly in his merriment; forthe Dodger's manner was impressive. 'Whatshould he say?'

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes;then, taking off his hat, scratched his head, andnodded thrice.

'What do you mean?' said Charley.

'Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, thefrog he wouldn't, and high cockolorum,' saidthe Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellec-tual countenance.

This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Mas-ter Bates felt it so; and again said, 'What do youmean?'

The Dodger made no reply; but putting his haton again, and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue intohis cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose somehalf-dozen times in a familiar but expressivemanner, and turning on his heel, slunk downthe court. Master Bates followed, with athoughtful countenance.

The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, afew minutes after the occurrence of this conver-sation, roused the merry old gentleman as hesat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loafin his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and apewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascallysmile on his white face as he turned round, andlooking sharply out from under his thick redeyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, andlistened.

'Why, how's this?' muttered the Jew: changingcountenance; 'only two of 'em? Where's thethird? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!'

The footsteps approached nearer; they reachedthe landing. The door was slowly opened; andthe Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closingit behind them.

CHAPTER XIII

SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE IN-TRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENTREADER,CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUSPLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED,APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY

'Where's Oliver?' said the Jew, rising with amenacing look. 'Where's the boy?'

The young thieves eyed their preceptor as ifthey were alarmed at his violence; and lookeduneasily at each other. But they made no reply.

'What's become of the boy?' said the Jew, seiz-ing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threat-ening him with horrid imprecations. 'Speakout, or I'll throttle you!'

Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, thatCharley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all

cases to be on the safe side, and who conceivedit by no means improbable that it might be histurn to be throttled second, dropped upon hisknees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, andcontinuous roar—something between a madbull and a speaking trumpet.

'Will you speak?' thundered the Jew: shakingthe Dodger so much that his keeping in the bigcoat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.

'Why, the traps have got him, and that's allabout it,' said the Dodger, sullenly. 'Come, letgo o' me, will you!' And, swinging himself, atone jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he leftin the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up thetoasting fork, and made a pass at the merry oldgentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had takeneffect, would have let a little more merrimentout than could have been easily replaced.

The Jew stepped back in this emergency, withmore agility than could have been anticipated

in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seiz-ing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assail-ant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment,calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl,he suddenly altered its destination, and flung itfull at that young gentleman.

'Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!'growled a deep voice. 'Who pitched that 'ere atme? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hitme, or I'd have settled somebody. I might haveknow'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plun-dering, thundering old Jew could afford tothrow away any drink but water—and not that,unless he done the River Company every quar-ter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D—me, if myneck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Comein, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stop-ping outside for, as if you was ashamed of yourmaster! Come in!'

The man who growled out these words, was astoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in

a black velveteen coat, very soiled drabbreeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cottonstockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs,with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs,which in such costume, always look in an un-finished and incomplete state without a set offetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat onhis head, and a dirty belcher handkerchiefround his neck: with the long frayed ends ofwhich he smeared the beer from his face as hespoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, abroad heavy countenance with a beard of threedays' growth, and two scowling eyes; one ofwhich displayed various parti-coloured symp-toms of having been recently damaged by ablow.

'Come in, d'ye hear?' growled this engagingruffian.

A white shaggy dog, with his face scratchedand torn in twenty different places, skulkedinto the room.

'Why didn't you come in afore?' said the man.'You're getting too proud to own me aforecompany, are you? Lie down!'

This command was accompanied with a kick,which sent the animal to the other end of theroom. He appeared well used to it, however;for he coiled himself up in a corner very qui-etly, without uttering a sound, and winking hisvery ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute,appeared to occupy himself in taking a surveyof the apartment.

'What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, youcovetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?'said the man, seating himself deliberately. 'Iwonder they don't murder you! I would if Iwas them. If I'd been your 'prentice, I'd havedone it long ago, and—no, I couldn't have soldyou afterwards, for you're fit for nothing butkeeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glassbottle, and I suppose they don't blow glass bot-tles large enough.'

'Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,' said the Jew, trembling;'don't speak so loud!'

'None of your mistering,' replied the ruffian;'you always mean mischief when you comethat. You know my name: out with it! I shan'tdisgrace it when the time comes.'

'Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,' said the Jew, withabject humility. 'You seem out of humour, Bill.'

'Perhaps I am,' replied Sikes; 'I should thinkyou was rather out of sorts too, unless youmean as little harm when you throw pewterpots about, as you do when you blab and—'

'Are you mad?' said the Jew, catching the manby the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys.

Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying animaginary knot under his left ear, and jerkinghis head over on the right shoulder; a piece ofdumb show which the Jew appeared to under-

stand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, withwhich his whole conversation was plentifullybesprinkled, but which would be quite unintel-ligible if they were recorded here, demanded aglass of liquor.

'And mind you don't poison it,' said Mr. Sikes,laying his hat upon the table.

This was said in jest; but if the speaker couldhave seen the evil leer with which the Jew bithis pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard,he might have thought the caution not whollyunnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to im-prove upon the distiller's ingenuity not very farfrom the old gentleman's merry heart.

After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits,Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice ofthe young gentlemen; which gracious act led toa conversation, in which the cause and mannerof Oliver's capture were circumstantially de-tailed, with such alterations and improvements

on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared mostadvisable under the circumstances.

'I'm afraid,' said the Jew, 'that he may say some-thing which will get us into trouble.'

'That's very likely,' returned Sikes with a mali-cious grin. 'You're blowed upon, Fagin.'

'And I'm afraid, you see,' added the Jew, speak-ing as if he had not noticed the interruption;and regarding the other closely as he did so,—'I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, itmight be up with a good many more, and thatit would come out rather worse for you than itwould for me, my dear.'

The man started, and turned round upon theJew. But the old gentleman's shoulders wereshrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were va-cantly staring on the opposite wall.

There was a long pause. Every member of therespectable coterie appeared plunged in hisown reflections; not excepting the dog, who bya certain malicious licking of his lips seemed tobe meditating an attack upon the legs of thefirst gentleman or lady he might encounter inthe streets when he went out.

'Somebody must find out wot's been done atthe office,' said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tonethan he had taken since he came in.

The Jew nodded assent.

'If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there'sno fear till he comes out again,' said Mr. Sikes,'and then he must be taken care on. You mustget hold of him somehow.'

Again the Jew nodded.

The prudence of this line of action, indeed, wasobvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very

strong objection to its being adopted. This was,that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin,and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all,to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipa-thy to going near a police-office on any groundor pretext whatever.

How long they might have sat and looked ateach other, in a state of uncertainty not themost pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess.It is not necessary to make any guesses on thesubject, however; for the sudden entrance ofthe two young ladies whom Oliver had seen ona former occasion, caused the conversation toflow afresh.

'The very thing!' said the Jew. 'Bet will go;won't you, my dear?'

'Wheres?' inquired the young lady.

'Only just up to the office, my dear,' said theJew coaxingly.

It is due to the young lady to say that she didnot positively affirm that she would not, butthat she merely expressed an emphatic andearnest desire to be 'blessed' if she would; apolite and delicate evasion of the request,which shows the young lady to have been pos-sessed of that natural good breeding whichcannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature,the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.

The Jew's countenance fell. He turned from thisyoung lady, who was gaily, not to say gor-geously attired, in a red gown, green boots, andyellow curl-papers, to the other female.

'Nancy, my dear,' said the Jew in a soothingmanner, 'what do YOU say?'

'That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on,Fagin,' replied Nancy.

'What do you mean by that?' said Mr. Sikes,looking up in a surly manner.

'What I say, Bill,' replied the lady collectedly.

'Why, you're just the very person for it,' rea-soned Mr. Sikes: 'nobody about here knowsanything of you.'

'And as I don't want 'em to, neither,' repliedNancy in the same composed manner, 'it'srather more no than yes with me, Bill.'

'She'll go, Fagin,' said Sikes.

'No, she won't, Fagin,' said Nancy.

'Yes, she will, Fagin,' said Sikes.

And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternatethreats, promises, and bribes, the lady in ques-tion was ultimately prevailed upon to under-take the commission. She was not, indeed,withheld by the same considerations as heragreeable friend; for, having recently removedinto the neighborhood of Field Lane from theremote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was

not under the same apprehension of being rec-ognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.

Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied overher gown, and her curl-papers tucked up undera straw bonnet,—both articles of dress beingprovided from the Jew's inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her er-rand.

'Stop a minute, my dear,' said the Jew, produc-ing, a little covered basket. 'Carry that in onehand. It looks more respectable, my dear.'

'Give her a door-key to carry in her t'other one,Fagin,' said Sikes; 'it looks real and genivinelike.'

'Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,' said the Jew,hanging a large street-door key on the forefin-ger of the young lady's right hand.

'There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!'said the Jew, rubbing his hands.

'Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, inno-cent little brother!' exclaimed Nancy, burstinginto tears, and wringing the little basket andthe street-door key in an agony of distress.'What has become of him! Where have theytaken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell mewhat's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen;do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!'

Having uttered those words in a most lamenta-ble and heart-broken tone: to the immeasurabledelight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused,winked to the company, nodded smilinglyround, and disappeared.

'Ah, she's a clever girl, my dears,' said the Jew,turning round to his young friends, and shak-ing his head gravely, as if in mute admonitionto them to follow the bright example they hadjust beheld.

'She's a honour to her sex,' said Mr. Sikes, fill-ing his glass, and smiting the table with hisenormous fist. 'Here's her health, and wishingthey was all like her!'

While these, and many other encomiums, werebeing passed on the accomplished Nancy, thatyoung lady made the best of her way to thepolice-office; whither, notwithstanding a littlenatural timidity consequent upon walkingthrough the streets alone and unprotected, shearrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.

Entering by the back way, she tapped softlywith the key at one of the cell-doors, and lis-tened. There was no sound within: so shecoughed and listened again. Still there was noreply: so she spoke.

'Nolly, dear?' murmured Nancy in a gentlevoice; 'Nolly?'

There was nobody inside but a miserable shoe-less criminal, who had been taken up for play-ing the flute, and who, the offence against soci-ety having been clearly proved, had been veryproperly committed by Mr. Fang to the Houseof Correction for one month; with the appro-priate and amusing remark that since he had somuch breath to spare, it would be more whole-somely expended on the treadmill than in amusical instrument. He made no answer: beingoccupied mentally bewailing the loss of theflute, which had been confiscated for the use ofthe county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell,and knocked there.

'Well!' cried a faint and feeble voice.

'Is there a little boy here?' inquired Nancy, witha preliminary sob.

'No,' replied the voice; 'God forbid.'

This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was goingto prison for not playing the flute; or, in otherwords, for begging in the streets, and doingnothing for his livelihood. In the next cell wasanother man, who was going to the sameprison for hawking tin saucepans without li-cense; thereby doing something for his living,in defiance of the Stamp-office.

But, as neither of these criminals answered tothe name of Oliver, or knew anything abouthim, Nancy made straight up to the bluff offi-cer in the striped waistcoat; and with the mostpiteous wailings and lamentations, renderedmore piteous by a prompt and efficient use ofthe street-door key and the little basket, de-manded her own dear brother.

'I haven't got him, my dear,' said the old man.

'Where is he?' screamed Nancy, in a distractedmanner.

'Why, the gentleman's got him,' replied the offi-cer.

'What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! Whatgentleman?' exclaimed Nancy.

In reply to this incoherent questioning, the oldman informed the deeply affected sister thatOliver had been taken ill in the office, and dis-charged in consequence of a witness havingproved the robbery to have been committed byanother boy, not in custody; and that the prose-cutor had carried him away, in an insensiblecondition, to his own residence: of and concern-ing which, all the informant knew was, that itwas somewhere in Pentonville, he havingheard that word mentioned in the directions tothe coachman.

In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty,the agonised young woman staggered to thegate, and then, exchanging her faltering walkfor a swift run, returned by the most devious

and complicated route she could think of, to thedomicile of the Jew.

Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account ofthe expedition delivered, than he very hastilycalled up the white dog, and, putting on hishat, expeditiously departed: without devotingany time to the formality of wishing the com-pany good-morning.

'We must know where he is, my dears; he mustbe found,' said the Jew greatly excited. 'Char-ley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bringhome some news of him! Nancy, my dear, Imust have him found. I trust to you, mydear,—to you and the Artful for everything!Stay, stay,' added the Jew, unlocking a drawerwith a shaking hand; 'there's money, my dears.I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll knowwhere to find me! Don't stop here a minute.Not an instant, my dears!'

With these words, he pushed them from theroom: and carefully double-locking and barringthe door behind them, drew from its place ofconcealment the box which he had uninten-tionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastilyproceeded to dispose the watches and jewellerybeneath his clothing.

A rap at the door startled him in this occupa-tion. 'Who's there?' he cried in a shrill tone.

'Me!' replied the voice of the Dodger, throughthe key-hole.

'What now?' cried the Jew impatiently.

'Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancysays?' inquired the Dodger.

'Yes,' replied the Jew, 'wherever she lays handson him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shallknow what to do next; never fear.'

The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: andhurried downstairs after his companions.

'He has not peached so far,' said the Jew as hepursued his occupation. 'If he means to blab usamong his new friends, we may stop his mouthyet.'

CHAPTER XIV

COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARSOF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S,WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTIONWHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTEREDCONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUTON AN ERRAND

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit intowhich Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation hadthrown him, the subject of the picture was care-

fully avoided, both by the old gentleman andMrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued:which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's his-tory or prospects, but was confined to suchtopics as might amuse without exciting him. Hewas still too weak to get up to breakfast; but,when he came down into the housekeeper'sroom next day, his first act was to cast an eagerglance at the wall, in the hope of again lookingon the face of the beautiful lady. His expecta-tions were disappointed, however, for the pic-ture had been removed.

'Ah!' said the housekeeper, watching the direc-tion of Oliver's eyes. 'It is gone, you see.'

'I see it is ma'am,' replied Oliver. 'Why havethey taken it away?'

'It has been taken down, child, because Mr.Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you,perhaps it might prevent your getting well, youknow,' rejoined the old lady.

'Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,'said Oliver. 'I liked to see it. I quite loved it.'

'Well, well!' said the old lady, good-humouredly; 'you get well as fast as ever youcan, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There!I promise you that! Now, let us talk aboutsomething else.'

This was all the information Oliver could ob-tain about the picture at that time. As the oldlady had been so kind to him in his illness, heendeavoured to think no more of the subjectjust then; so he listened attentively to a greatmany stories she told him, about an amiableand handsome daughter of hers, who was mar-ried to an amiable and handsome man, andlived in the country; and about a son, who wasclerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and whowas, also, such a good young man, and wrotesuch dutiful letters home four times a-year, thatit brought the tears into her eyes to talk aboutthem. When the old lady had expatiated, a long

time, on the excellences of her children, and themerits of her kind good husband besides, whohad been dead and gone, poor dear soul! justsix-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea.After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage:which he learnt as quickly as she could teach:and at which game they played, with great in-terest and gravity, until it was time for the in-valid to have some warm wine and water, witha slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days, those of Oliver's recov-ery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, andorderly; everybody so kind and gentle; thatafter the noise and turbulence in the midst ofwhich he had always lived, it seemed likeHeaven itself. He was no sooner strong enoughto put his clothes on, properly, than Mr.Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and anew cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be pro-vided for him. As Oliver was told that he mightdo what he liked with the old clothes, he gave

them to a servant who had been very kind tohim, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, andkeep the money for herself. This she very read-ily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlourwindow, and saw the Jew roll them up in hisbag and walk away, he felt quite delighted tothink that they were safely gone, and that therewas now no possible danger of his ever beingable to wear them again. They were sad rags, totell the truth; and Oliver had never had a newsuit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair ofthe picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs.Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr.Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well,he should like to see him in his study, and talkto him a little while.

'Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, andlet me part your hair nicely for you, child,' saidMrs. Bedwin. 'Dear heart alive! If we hadknown he would have asked for you, we would

have put you a clean collar on, and made youas smart as sixpence!'

Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, al-though she lamented grievously, meanwhile,that there was not even time to crimp the littlefrill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked sodelicate and handsome, despite that importantpersonal advantage, that she went so far as tosay: looking at him with great complacencyfrom head to foot, that she really didn't think itwould have been possible, on the longest no-tice, to have made much difference in him forthe better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the studydoor. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to comein, he found himself in a little back room, quitefull of books, with a window, looking intosome pleasant little gardens. There was a tabledrawn up before the window, at which Mr.Brownlow was seated reading. When he sawOliver, he pushed the book away from him,

and told him to come near the table, and sitdown. Oliver complied; marvelling where thepeople could be found to read such a greatnumber of books as seemed to be written tomake the world wiser. Which is still a marvel tomore experienced people than Oliver Twist,every day of their lives.

'There are a good many books, are there not,my boy?' said Mr. Brownlow, observing thecuriosity with which Oliver surveyed theshelves that reached from the floor to the ceil-ing.

'A great number, sir,' replied Oliver. 'I neversaw so many.'

'You shall read them, if you behave well,' saidthe old gentleman kindly; 'and you will likethat, better than looking at the outsides,—thatis, some cases; because there are books of whichthe backs and covers are by far the best parts.'

'I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' saidOliver, pointing to some large quartos, with agood deal of gilding about the binding.

'Not always those,' said the old gentleman, pat-ting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he didso; 'there are other equally heavy ones, thoughof a much smaller size. How should you like togrow up a clever man, and write books, eh?'

'I think I would rather read them, sir,' repliedOliver.

'What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?'said the old gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while; and at last said,he should think it would be a much better thingto be a book-seller; upon which the old gentle-man laughed heartily, and declared he had saida very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad tohave done, though he by no means knew whatit was.

'Well, well,' said the old gentleman, composinghis features. 'Don't be afraid! We won't make anauthor of you, while there's an honest trade tobe learnt, or brick-making to turn to.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Oliver. At the earnestmanner of his reply, the old gentleman laughedagain; and said something about a curious in-stinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paidno very great attention to.

'Now,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possiblein a kinder, but at the same time in a muchmore serious manner, than Oliver had everknown him assume yet, 'I want you to paygreat attention, my boy, to what I am going tosay. I shall talk to you without any reserve;because I am sure you are well able to under-stand me, as many older persons would be.'

'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away,sir, pray!' exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the se-rious tone of the old gentleman's commence-

ment! 'Don't turn me out of doors to wander inthe streets again. Let me stay here, and be aservant. Don't send me back to the wretchedplace I came from. Have mercy upon a poorboy, sir!'

'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, movedby the warmth of Oliver's sudden appeal; 'youneed not be afraid of my deserting you, unlessyou give me cause.'

'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver.

'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I donot think you ever will. I have been deceived,before, in the objects whom I have endeav-oured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed totrust you, nevertheless; and I am more inter-ested in your behalf than I can well account for,even to myself. The persons on whom I havebestowed my dearest love, lie deep in theirgraves; but, although the happiness and delightof my life lie buried there too, I have not made

a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever,on my best affections. Deep affliction has butstrengthened and refined them.'

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice:more to himself than to his companion: and ashe remained silent for a short time afterwards:Oliver sat quite still.

'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, ina more cheerful tone, 'I only say this, becauseyou have a young heart; and knowing that Ihave suffered great pain and sorrow, you willbe more careful, perhaps, not to wound meagain. You say you are an orphan, without afriend in the world; all the inquiries I have beenable to make, confirm the statement. Let mehear your story; where you come from; whobrought you up; and how you got into thecompany in which I found you. Speak thetruth, and you shall not be friendless while Ilive.'

Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for someminutes; when he was on the point of begin-ning to relate how he had been brought up atthe farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr.Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and theservant, running upstairs, announced Mr.Grimwig.

'Is he coming up?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.

'Yes, sir,' replied the servant. 'He asked if therewere any muffins in the house; and, when Itold him yes, he said he had come to tea.'

Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver,said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his,and he must not mind his being a little rough inhis manners; for he was a worthy creature atbottom, as he had reason to know.

'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver.

'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would ratheryou remained here.'

At this moment, there walked into the room:supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout oldgentleman, rather lame in one leg, who wasdressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nan-keen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned upwith green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuckout from his waistcoat; and a very long steelwatch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end,dangled loosely below it. The ends of his whiteneckerchief were twisted into a ball about thesize of an orange; the variety of shapes intowhich his countenance was twisted, defy de-scription. He had a manner of screwing hishead on one side when he spoke; and of look-ing out of the corners of his eyes at the sametime: which irresistibly reminded the beholderof a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, themoment he made his appearance; and, holding

out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length,exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice.

'Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most won-derful and extraordinary thing that I can't callat a man's house but I find a piece of this poorsurgeon's friend on the staircase? I've beenlamed with orange-peel once, and I know or-ange-peel will be my death, or I'll be content toeat my own head, sir!'

This was the handsome offer with which Mr.Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly everyassertion he made; and it was the more singularin his case, because, even admitting for the sakeof argument, the possibility of scientific im-provements being brought to that pass whichwill enable a gentleman to eat his own head inthe event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grim-wig's head was such a particularly large one,that the most sanguine man alive could hardlyentertain a hope of being able to get through it

at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question,a very thick coating of powder.

'I'll eat my head, sir,' repeated Mr. Grimwig,striking his stick upon the ground. 'Hallo!what's that!' looking at Oliver, and retreating apace or two.

'This is young Oliver Twist, whom we werespeaking about,' said Mr. Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

'You don't mean to say that's the boy who hadthe fever, I hope?' said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling alittle more. 'Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop—'continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing alldread of the fever in his triumph at the discov-ery; 'that's the boy who had the orange! If that'snot the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threwthis bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat myhead, and his too.'

'No, no, he has not had one,' said Mr.Brownlow, laughing. 'Come! Put down yourhat; and speak to my young friend.'

'I feel strongly on this subject, sir,' said the irri-table old gentleman, drawing off his gloves.'There's always more or less orange-peel on thepavement in our street; and I know it's put thereby the surgeon's boy at the corner. A youngwoman stumbled over a bit last night, and fellagainst my garden-railings; directly she got upI saw her look towards his infernal red lampwith the pantomime-light. "Don't go to him," Icalled out of the window, "he's an assassin! Aman-trap!" So he is. If he is not—' Here the iras-cible old gentleman gave a great knock on theground with his stick; which was always un-derstood, by his friends, to imply the custom-ary offer, whenever it was not expressed inwords. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand,he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass,which he wore attached to a broad black ri-

band, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that hewas the object of inspection, coloured, andbowed again.

'That's the boy, is it?' said Mr. Grimwig, atlength.

'That's the boy,' replied Mr. Brownlow.

'How are you, boy?' said Mr. Grimwig.

'A great deal better, thank you, sir,' repliedOliver.

Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that hissingular friend was about to say somethingdisagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairsand tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea;which, as he did not half like the visitor's man-ner, he was very happy to do.

'He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?' inquiredMr. Brownlow.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

'Don't know?'

'No. I don't know. I never see any difference inboys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys,and beef-faced boys.'

'And which is Oliver?'

'Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-facedboy; a fine boy, they call him; with a roundhead, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horridboy; with a body and limbs that appear to beswelling out of the seams of his blue clothes;with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of awolf. I know him! The wretch!'

'Come,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'these are not thecharacteristics of young Oliver Twist; so heneedn't excite your wrath.'

'They are not,' replied Mr. Grimwig. 'He mayhave worse.'

Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently;which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig themost exquisite delight.

'He may have worse, I say,' repeated Mr.Grimwig. 'Where does he come from! Who ishe? What is he? He has had a fever. What ofthat? Fevers are not peculiar to good people;are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes;haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hungin Jamaica for murdering his master. He hadhad a fever six times; he wasn't recommendedto mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!'

Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses ofhis own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly dis-posed to admit that Oliver's appearance andmanner were unusually prepossessing; but hehad a strong appetite for contradiction, sharp-ened on this occasion by the finding of the or-ange-peel; and, inwardly determining that noman should dictate to him whether a boy waswell-looking or not, he had resolved, from the

first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlowadmitted that on no one point of inquiry couldhe yet return a satisfactory answer; and that hehad postponed any investigation into Oliver'sprevious history until he thought the boy wasstrong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuck-led maliciously. And he demanded, with asneer, whether the housekeeper was in thehabit of counting the plate at night; because ifshe didn't find a table-spoon or two missingsome sunshiny morning, why, he would becontent to—and so forth.

All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himselfsomewhat of an impetuous gentleman: know-ing his friend's peculiarities, bore with greatgood humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was gra-ciously pleased to express his entire approvalof the muffins, matters went on very smoothly;and Oliver, who made one of the party, beganto feel more at his ease than he had yet done inthe fierce old gentleman's presence.

'And when are you going to hear a full, true,and particular account of the life and adven-tures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of Mr.Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; look-ing sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his sub-ject.

'To-morrow morning,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'Iwould rather he was alone with me at the time.Come up to me to-morrow morning at teno'clock, my dear.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver. He answered withsome hesitation, because he was confused byMr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him.

'I'll tell you what,' whispered that gentleman toMr. Brownlow; 'he won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is de-ceiving you, my good friend.'

'I'll swear he is not,' replied Mr. Brownlow,warmly.

'If he is not,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'I'll—' anddown went the stick.

'I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!'said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table.

'And I for his falsehood with my head!' rejoinedMr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.

'We shall see,' said Mr. Brownlow, checking hisrising anger.

'We will,' replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provok-ing smile; 'we will.'

As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced tobring in, at this moment, a small parcel ofbooks, which Mr. Brownlow had that morningpurchased of the identical bookstall-keeper,who has already figured in this history; havinglaid them on the table, she prepared to leavethe room.

'Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!' said Mr.Brownlow; 'there is something to go back.'

'He has gone, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin.

'Call after him,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'it's par-ticular. He is a poor man, and they are not paidfor. There are some books to be taken back, too.'

The street-door was opened. Oliver ran oneway; and the girl ran another; and Mrs. Bedwinstood on the step and screamed for the boy; butthere was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girlreturned, in a breathless state, to report thatthere were no tidings of him.

'Dear me, I am very sorry for that,' exclaimedMr. Brownlow; 'I particularly wished thosebooks to be returned to-night.'

'Send Oliver with them,' said Mr. Grimwig,with an ironical smile; 'he will be sure to de-liver them safely, you know.'

'Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,'said Oliver. 'I'll run all the way, sir.'

The old gentleman was just going to say thatOliver should not go out on any account; whena most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig de-termined him that he should; and that, by hisprompt discharge of the commission, he shouldprove to him the injustice of his suspicions: onthis head at least: at once.

'You shall go, my dear,' said the old gentleman.'The books are on a chair by my table. Fetchthem down.'

Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought downthe books under his arm in a great bustle; andwaited, cap in hand, to hear what message hewas to take.

'You are to say,' said Mr. Brownlow, glancingsteadily at Grimwig; 'you are to say that youhave brought those books back; and that you

have come to pay the four pound ten I owehim. This is a five-pound note, so you will haveto bring me back, ten shillings change.'

'I won't be ten minutes, sir,' said Oliver, ea-gerly. Having buttoned up the bank-note in hisjacket pocket, and placed the books carefullyunder his arm, he made a respectful bow, andleft the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to thestreet-door, giving him many directions aboutthe nearest way, and the name of the book-seller, and the name of the street: all of whichOliver said he clearly understood. Havingsuperadded many injunctions to be sure andnot take cold, the old lady at length permittedhim to depart.

'Bless his sweet face!' said the old lady, lookingafter him. 'I can't bear, somehow, to let him goout of my sight.'

At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, andnodded before he turned the corner. The old

lady smilingly returned his salutation, and,closing the door, went back to her own room.

'Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, atthe longest,' said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out hiswatch, and placing it on the table. 'It will bedark by that time.'

'Oh! you really expect him to come back, doyou?' inquired Mr. Grimwig.

'Don't you?' asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.

The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr.Grimwig's breast, at the moment; and it wasrendered stronger by his friend's confidentsmile.

'No,' he said, smiting the table with his fist, 'Ido not. The boy has a new suit of clothes on hisback, a set of valuable books under his arm,and a five-pound note in his pocket. He'll joinhis old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If

ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I'll eatmy head.'

With these words he drew his chair closer tothe table; and there the two friends sat, in silentexpectation, with the watch between them.

It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the im-portance we attach to our own judgments, andthe pride with which we put forth our mostrash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr.Grimwig was not by any means a bad-heartedman, and though he would have been unfeign-edly sorry to see his respected friend dupedand deceived, he really did most earnestly andstrongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twistmight not come back.

It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible; but there thetwo old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence,with the watch between them.

CHAPTER XV

SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OFOLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEWAND MISS NANCY WERE

In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, inthe filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill; a darkand gloomy den, where a flaring gas-lightburnt all day in the winter-time; and where noray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat,brooding over a little pewter measure and asmall glass, strongly impregnated with thesmell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drabshorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even bythat dim light no experienced agent of the po-lice would have hesitated to recognise as Mr.William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated,red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alter-

nately, in winking at his master with both eyesat the same time; and in licking a large, freshcut on one side of his mouth, which appearedto be the result of some recent conflict.

'Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!' said Mr.Sikes, suddenly breaking silence. Whether hismeditations were so intense as to be disturbedby the dog's winking, or whether his feelingswere so wrought upon by his reflections thatthey required all the relief derivable from kick-ing an unoffending animal to allay them, ismatter for argument and consideration. What-ever was the cause, the effect was a kick and acurse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.

Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuriesinflicted upon them by their masters; but Mr.Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in commonwith his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at thismoment, under a powerful sense of injury,made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth inone of the half-boots. Having given in a hearty

shake, he retired, growling, under a form; justescaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikeslevelled at his head.

'You would, would you?' said Sikes, seizing thepoker in one hand, and deliberately openingwith the other a large clasp-knife, which hedrew from his pocket. 'Come here, you borndevil! Come here! D'ye hear?'

The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikesspoke in the very harshest key of a very harshvoice; but, appearing to entertain some unac-countable objection to having his throat cut, heremained where he was, and growled morefiercely than before: at the same time graspingthe end of the poker between his teeth, andbiting at it like a wild beast.

This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes themore; who, dropping on his knees, began toassail the animal most furiously. The dogjumped from right to left, and from left to right;

snapping, growling, and barking; the manthrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed;and the struggle was reaching a most criticalpoint for one or other; when, the door suddenlyopening, the dog darted out: leaving Bill Sikeswith the poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.

There must always be two parties to a quarrel,says the old adage. Mr. Sikes, being disap-pointed of the dog's participation, at once trans-ferred his share in the quarrel to the newcomer.

'What the devil do you come in between meand my dog for?' said Sikes, with a fierce ges-ture.

'I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know,' repliedFagin, humbly; for the Jew was the new comer.

'Didn't know, you white-livered thief!' growledSikes. 'Couldn't you hear the noise?'

'Not a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill,'replied the Jew.

'Oh no! You hear nothing, you don't,' retortedSikes with a fierce sneer. 'Sneaking in and out,so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wishyou had been the dog, Fagin, half a minuteago.'

'Why?' inquired the Jew with a forced smile.

'Cause the government, as cares for the lives ofsuch men as you, as haven't half the pluck ofcurs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,' repliedSikes, shutting up the knife with a very expres-sive look; 'that's why.'

The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down atthe table, affected to laugh at the pleasantry ofhis friend. He was obviously very ill at ease,however.

'Grin away,' said Sikes, replacing the poker,and surveying him with savage contempt; 'grinaway. You'll never have the laugh at me,though, unless it's behind a nightcap. I've gotthe upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d—me,I'll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care ofme.'

'Well, well, my dear,' said the Jew, 'I know allthat; we—we—have a mutual interest, Bill,—amutual interest.'

'Humph,' said Sikes, as if he thought the inter-est lay rather more on the Jew's side than onhis. 'Well, what have you got to say to me?'

'It's all passed safe through the melting-pot,'replied Fagin, 'and this is your share. It's rathermore than it ought to be, my dear; but as Iknow you'll do me a good turn another time,and—'

'Stow that gammon,' interposed the robber,impatiently. 'Where is it? Hand over!'

'Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,' re-plied the Jew, soothingly. 'Here it is! All safe!'As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton hand-kerchief from his breast; and untying a largeknot in one corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him,hastily opened it; and proceeded to count thesovereigns it contained.

'This is all, is it?' inquired Sikes.

'All,' replied the Jew.

'You haven't opened the parcel and swallowedone or two as you come along, have you?' in-quired Sikes, suspiciously. 'Don't put on aninjured look at the question; you've done itmany a time. Jerk the tinkler.'

These words, in plain English, conveyed aninjunction to ring the bell. It was answered byanother Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly asvile and repulsive in appearance.

Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure.The Jew, perfectly understanding the hint, re-tired to fill it: previously exchanging a remark-able look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for aninstant, as if in expectation of it, and shook hishead in reply; so slightly that the action wouldhave been almost imperceptible to an observantthird person. It was lost upon Sikes, who wasstooping at the moment to tie the boot-lacewhich the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had ob-served the brief interchange of signals, hemight have thought that it boded no good tohim.

'Is anybody here, Barney?' inquired Fagin;speaking, now that that Sikes was looking on,without raising his eyes from the ground.

'Dot a shoul,' replied Barney; whose words:whether they came from the heart or not: madetheir way through the nose.

'Nobody?' inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise:which perhaps might mean that Barney was atliberty to tell the truth.

'Dobody but Biss Dadsy,' replied Barney.

'Nancy!' exclaimed Sikes. 'Where? Strike meblind, if I don't honour that 'ere girl, for hernative talents.'

'She's bid havid a plate of boiled beef id thebar,' replied Barney.

'Send her here,' said Sikes, pouring out a glassof liquor. 'Send her here.'

Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for per-mission; the Jew remaining silent, and not lift-ing his eyes from the ground, he retired; andpresently returned, ushering in Nancy; who

was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket,and street-door key, complete.

'You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?' inquiredSikes, proffering the glass.

'Yes, I am, Bill,' replied the young lady, dispos-ing of its contents; 'and tired enough of it I am,too. The young brat's been ill and confined tothe crib; and—'

'Ah, Nancy, dear!' said Fagin, looking up.

Now, whether a peculiar contraction of theJew's red eye-brows, and a half closing of hisdeeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that shewas disposed to be too communicative, is not amatter of much importance. The fact is all weneed care for here; and the fact is, that she sud-denly checked herself, and with several gra-cious smiles upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conver-sation to other matters. In about ten minutes'time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of cough-

ing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl overher shoulders, and declared it was time to go.Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a shortpart of her way himself, expressed his intentionof accompanying her; they went away together,followed, at a little distant, by the dog, whoslunk out of a back-yard as soon as his masterwas out of sight.

The Jew thrust his head out of the room doorwhen Sikes had left it; looked after him as wewalked up the dark passage; shook hisclenched fist; muttered a deep curse; and then,with a horrible grin, reseated himself at thetable; where he was soon deeply absorbed inthe interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.

Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming thathe was within so very short a distance of themerry old gentleman, was on his way to thebook-stall. When he got into Clerkenwell, heaccidently turned down a by-street which wasnot exactly in his way; but not discovering his

mistake until he had got half-way down it, andknowing it must lead in the right direction, hedid not think it worth while to turn back; andso marched on, as quickly as he could, with thebooks under his arm.

He was walking along, thinking how happyand contented he ought to feel; and how muchhe would give for only one look at poor littleDick, who, starved and beaten, might be weep-ing bitterly at that very moment; when he wasstartled by a young woman screaming out veryloud. 'Oh, my dear brother!' And he had hardlylooked up, to see what the matter was, when hewas stopped by having a pair of arms throwntight round his neck.

'Don't,' cried Oliver, struggling. 'Let go of me.Who is it? What are you stopping me for?'

The only reply to this, was a great number ofloud lamentations from the young woman who

had embraced him; and who had a little basketand a street-door key in her hand.

'Oh my gracious!' said the young woman, 'Ihave found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh younaughty boy, to make me suffer such distresson your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh,I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heav-ins, I've found him!' With these incoherent ex-clamations, the young woman burst into an-other fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hys-terical, that a couple of women who came up atthe moment asked a butcher's boy with a shinyhead of hair anointed with suet, who was alsolooking on, whether he didn't think he had bet-ter run for the doctor. To which, the butcher'sboy: who appeared of a lounging, not to sayindolent disposition: replied, that he thoughtnot.

'Oh, no, no, never mind,' said the youngwoman, grasping Oliver's hand; 'I'm better

now. Come home directly, you cruel boy!Come!'

'Oh, ma'am,' replied the young woman, 'he ranaway, near a month ago, from his parents, whoare hard-working and respectable people; andwent and joined a set of thieves and bad char-acters; and almost broke his mother's heart.'

'Young wretch!' said one woman.

'Go home, do, you little brute,' said the other.

'I am not,' replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. 'Idon't know her. I haven't any sister, or fatherand mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pen-tonville.'

'Only hear him, how he braves it out!' cried theyoung woman.

'Why, it's Nancy!' exclaimed Oliver; who nowsaw her face for the first time; and started back,in irrepressible astonishment.

'You see he knows me!' cried Nancy, appealingto the bystanders. 'He can't help himself. Makehim come home, there's good people, or he'llkill his dear mother and father, and break myheart!'

'What the devil's this?' said a man, bursting outof a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels;'young Oliver! Come home to your poormother, you young dog! Come home directly.'

'I don't belong to them. I don't know them.Help! help!' cried Oliver, struggling in theman's powerful grasp.

'Help!' repeated the man. 'Yes; I'll help you, youyoung rascal!

What books are these? You've been a stealing'em, have you? Give 'em here.' With thesewords, the man tore the volumes from hisgrasp, and struck him on the head.

'That's right!' cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. 'That's the only way of bringing himto his senses!'

'To be sure!' cried a sleepy-faced carpenter,casting an approving look at the garret-window.

'It'll do him good!' said the two women.

'And he shall have it, too!' rejoined the man,administering another blow, and seizing Oliverby the collar. 'Come on, you young villain!Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!'

Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blowsand the suddenness of the attack; terrified bythe fierce growling of the dog, and the brutalityof the man; overpowered by the conviction ofthe bystanders that he really was the hardenedlittle wretch he was described to be; what couldone poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was alow neighborhood; no help was near; resistance

was useless. In another moment he wasdragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts,and was forced along them at a pace whichrendered the few cries he dared to give utter-ance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment,indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; forthere was nobody to care for them, had theybeen ever so plain.

The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin waswaiting anxiously at the open door; the servanthad run up the street twenty times to see ifthere were any traces of Oliver; and still thetwo old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in thedark parlour, with the watch between them.

CHAPTER XVI

RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVERTWIST,AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BYNANCY

The narrow streets and courts, at length, termi-nated in a large open space; scattered aboutwhich, were pens for beasts, and other indica-tions of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened hispace when they reached this spot: the girl beingquite unable to support any longer, the rapidrate at which they had hitherto walked. Turn-ing to Oliver, he roughly commanded him totake hold of Nancy's hand.

'Do you hear?' growled Sikes, as Oliver hesi-tated, and looked round.

They were in a dark corner, quite out of thetrack of passengers.

Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistancewould be of no avail. He held out his hand,which Nancy clasped tight in hers.

'Give me the other,' said Sikes, seizing Oliver'sunoccupied hand. 'Here, Bull's-Eye!'

The dog looked up, and growled.

'See here, boy!' said Sikes, putting his otherhand to Oliver's throat; 'if he speaks ever so softa word, hold him! D'ye mind!'

The dog growled again; and licking his lips,eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach him-self to his windpipe without delay.

'He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind ifhe isn't!' said Sikes, regarding the animal with akind of grim and ferocious approval. 'Now, youknow what you've got to expect, master, so callaway as quick as you like; the dog will soonstop that game. Get on, young'un!'

Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgmentof this unusually endearing form of speech;and, giving vent to another admonitory growlfor the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.

It was Smithfield that they were crossing, al-though it might have been Grosvenor Square,for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. Thenight was dark and foggy. The lights in theshops could scarecely struggle through theheavy mist, which thickened every momentand shrouded the streets and houses in gloom;rendering the strange place still stranger inOliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty themore dismal and depressing.

They had hurried on a few paces, when a deepchurch-bell struck the hour. With its firststroke, his two conductors stopped, and turnedtheir heads in the direction whence the soundproceeded.

'Eight o' clock, Bill,' said Nancy, when the bellceased.

'What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it,can't I!' replied Sikes.

'I wonder whether THEY can hear it,' saidNancy.

'Of course they can,' replied Sikes. 'It wasBartlemy time when I was shopped; and therewarn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn'thear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked upfor the night, the row and din outside made thethundering old jail so silent, that I could almosthave beat my brains out against the iron platesof the door.'

'Poor fellow!' said Nancy, who still had her faceturned towards the quarter in which the bellhad sounded. 'Oh, Bill, such fine young chapsas them!'

'Yes; that's all you women think of,' answeredSikes. 'Fine young chaps! Well, they're as goodas dead, so it don't much matter.'

With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared torepress a rising tendency to jealousy, and,clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him tostep out again.

'Wait a minute!' said the girl: 'I wouldn't hurryby, if it was you that was coming out to behung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'dwalk round and round the place till I dropped,if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't ashawl to cover me.'

'And what good would that do?' inquired theunsentimental Mr. Sikes. 'Unless you couldpitch over a file and twenty yards of good stoutrope, you might as well be walking fifty mileoff, or not walking at all, for all the good itwould do me. Come on, and don't standpreaching there.'

The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawlmore closely round her; and they walked away.But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, lookingup in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, sawthat it had turned a deadly white.

They walked on, by little-frequented and dirtyways, for a full half-hour: meeting very fewpeople, and those appearing from their looks tohold much the same position in society as Mr.Sikes himself. At length they turned into a veryfilthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothesshops; the dog running forward, as if consciousthat there was no further occasion for his keep-ing on guard, stopped before the door of a shopthat was closed and apparently untenanted; thehouse was in a ruinous condition, and on thedoor was nailed a board, intimating that it wasto let: which looked as if it had hung there formany years.

'All right,' cried Sikes, glancing cautiouslyabout.

Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliverheard the sound of a bell. They crossed to theopposite side of the street, and stood for a fewmoments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sashwindow were gently raised, was heard; andsoon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr.Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collarwith very little ceremony; and all three werequickly inside the house.

The passage was perfectly dark. They waited,while the person who had let them in, chainedand barred the door.

'Anybody here?' inquired Sikes.

'No,' replied a voice, which Oliver thought hehad heard before.

'Is the old 'un here?' asked the robber.

'Yes,' replied the voice, 'and precious down inthe mouth he has been. Won't he be glad to seeyou? Oh, no!'

The style of this reply, as well as the voicewhich delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver'sears: but it was impossible to distinguish eventhe form of the speaker in the darkness.

'Let's have a glim,' said Sikes, 'or we shall gobreaking our necks, or treading on the dog.Look after your legs if you do!'

'Stand still a moment, and I'll get you one,' re-plied the voice. The receding footsteps of thespeaker were heard; and, in another minute,the form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise theArtful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his righthand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleftstick.

The young gentleman did not stop to bestowany other mark of recognition upon Oliver than

a humourous grin; but, turning away, beck-oned the visitors to follow him down a flight ofstairs. They crossed an empty kitchen; and,opening the door of a low earthy-smellingroom, which seemed to have been built in asmall back-yard, were received with a shout oflaughter.

'Oh, my wig, my wig!' cried Master CharlesBates, from whose lungs the laughter had pro-ceeded: 'here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fa-gin, look at him! Fagin, do look at him! I can'tbear it; it is such a jolly game, I cant' bear it.Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.'

With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Mas-ter Bates laid himself flat on the floor: andkicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ec-tasy of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet,he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger;and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him roundand round; while the Jew, taking off his night-cap, made a great number of low bows to the

bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, whowas of a rather saturnine disposition, and sel-dom gave way to merriment when it interferedwith business, rifled Oliver's pockets withsteady assiduity.

'Look at his togs, Fagin!' said Charley, puttingthe light so close to his new jacket as nearly toset him on fire. 'Look at his togs! Superfinecloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye,what a game! And his books, too! Nothing buta gentleman, Fagin!'

'Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,'said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. 'TheArtful shall give you another suit, my dear, forfear you should spoil that Sunday one. Whydidn't you write, my dear, and say you werecoming? We'd have got something warm forsupper.'

At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, thatFagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger

smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtfulwhether the sally of the discovery awakenedhis merriment.

'Hallo, what's that?' inquired Sikes, steppingforward as the Jew seized the note. 'That'smine, Fagin.'

'No, no, my dear,' said the Jew. 'Mine, Bill,mine. You shall have the books.'

'If that ain't mine!' said Bill Sikes, putting on hishat with a determined air; 'mine and Nancy'sthat is; I'll take the boy back again.'

The Jew started. Oliver started too, thoughfrom a very different cause; for he hoped thatthe dispute might really end in his being takenback.

'Come! Hand over, will you?' said Sikes.

'This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it,Nancy?' inquired the Jew.

'Fair, or not fair,' retorted Sikes, 'hand over, Itell you! Do you think Nancy and me has gotnothing else to do with our precious time but tospend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping,every young boy as gets grabbed through you?Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give ithere!'

With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikesplucked the note from between the Jew's fingerand thumb; and looking the old man coolly inthe face, folded it up small, and tied it in hisneckerchief.

'That's for our share of the trouble,' said Sikes;'and not half enough, neither. You may keepthe books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't,sell 'em.'

'They're very pretty,' said Charley Bates: who,with sundry grimaces, had been affecting toread one of the volumes in question; 'beautifulwriting, isn't is, Oliver?' At sight of the dis-mayed look with which Oliver regarded histormentors, Master Bates, who was blessedwith a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell intoanother ectasy, more boisterous than the first.

'They belong to the old gentleman,' said Oliver,wringing his hands; 'to the good, kind, old gen-tleman who took me into his house, and hadme nursed, when I was near dying of the fever.Oh, pray send them back; send him back thebooks and money. Keep me here all my lifelong; but pray, pray send them back. He'll thinkI stole them; the old lady: all of them who wereso kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, dohave mercy upon me, and send them back!'

With these words, which were uttered with allthe energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon

his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his handstogether, in perfect desperation.

'The boy's right,' remarked Fagin, looking cov-ertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrowsinto a hard knot. 'You're right, Oliver, you'reright; they WILL think you have stolen 'em. Ha!ha!' chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, 'itcouldn't have happened better, if we had cho-sen our time!'

'Of course it couldn't,' replied Sikes; 'I know'dthat, directly I see him coming through Clerk-enwell, with the books under his arm. It's allright enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in atall; and they'll ask no questions after him, fearthey should be obliged to prosecute, and so gethim lagged. He's safe enough.'

Oliver had looked from one to the other, whilethese words were being spoken, as if he werebewildered, and could scarecely understand

what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, hejumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildlyfrom the room: uttering shrieks for help, whichmade the bare old house echo to the roof.

'Keep back the dog, Bill!' cried Nancy, spring-ing before the door, and closing it, as the Jewand his two pupils darted out in pursuit. 'Keepback the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces.'

'Serve him right!' cried Sikes, struggling to dis-engage himself from the girl's grasp. 'Stand offfrom me, or I'll split your head against thewall.'

'I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that,'screamed the girl, struggling violently with theman, 'the child shan't be torn down by the dog,unless you kill me first.'

'Shan't he!' said Sikes, setting his teeth. 'I'll soondo that, if you don't keep off.'

The housebreaker flung the girl from him to thefurther end of the room, just as the Jew and thetwo boys returned, dragging Oliver amongthem.

'What's the matter here!' said Fagin, lookinground.

'The girl's gone mad, I think,' replied Sikes,savagely.

'No, she hasn't,' said Nancy, pale and breathlessfrom the scuffle; 'no, she hasn't, Fagin; don'tthink it.'

'Then keep quiet, will you?' said the Jew, with athreatening look.

'No, I won't do that, neither,' replied Nancy,speaking very loud. 'Come! What do you thinkof that?'

Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted withthe manners and customs of that particular

species of humanity to which Nancy belonged,to feel tolerably certain that it would be ratherunsafe to prolong any conversation with her, atpresent. With the view of diverting the atten-tion of the company, he turned to Oliver.

'So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?'said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knottedclub which law in a corner of the fireplace; 'eh?'

Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew'smotions, and breathed quickly.

'Wanted to get assistance; called for the police;did you?' sneered the Jew, catching the boy bythe arm. 'We'll cure you of that, my young mas-ter.'

The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver'sshoulders with the club; and was raising it for asecond, when the girl, rushing forward,wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the

fire, with a force that brought some of the glow-ing coals whirling out into the room.

'I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin,' criedthe girl. 'You've got the boy, and what morewould you have?—Let him be—let him be—orI shall put that mark on some of you, that willbring me to the gallows before my time.'

The girl stamped her foot violently on the flooras she vented this threat; and with her lipscompressed, and her hands clenched, lookedalternately at the Jew and the other robber: herface quite colourless from the passion of rageinto which she had gradually worked herself.

'Why, Nancy!' said the Jew, in a soothing tone;after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikeshad stared at one another in a disconcertedmanner; 'you,—you're more clever than everto-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beau-tifully.'

'Am I!' said the girl. 'Take care I don't overdo it.You will be the worse for it, Fagin, if I do; andso I tell you in good time to keep clear of me.'

There is something about a roused woman:especially if she add to all her other strong pas-sions, the fierce impulses of recklessness anddespair; which few men like to provoke. TheJew saw that it would be hopeless to affect anyfurther mistake regarding the reality of MissNancy's rage; and, shrinking involuntarily backa few paces, cast a glance, half imploring andhalf cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he wasthe fittest person to pursue the dialogue.

Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possi-bly feeling his personal pride and influenceinterested in the immediate reduction of MissNancy to reason; gave utterance to about acouple of score of curses and threats, the rapidproduction of which reflected great credit onthe fertility of his invention. As they producedno visible effect on the object against whom

they were discharged, however, he resorted tomore tangible arguments.

'What do you mean by this?' said Sikes; backingthe inquiry with a very common imprecationconcerning the most beautiful of human fea-tures: which, if it were heard above, only onceout of every fifty thousand times that it is ut-tered below, would render blindness as com-mon a disorder as measles: 'what do you meanby it? Burn my body! Do you know who youare, and what you are?'

'Oh, yes, I know all about it,' replied the girl,laughing hysterically; and shaking her headfrom side to side, with a poor assumption ofindifference.

'Well, then, keep quiet,' rejoined Sikes, with agrowl like that he was accustomed to use whenaddressing his dog, 'or I'll quiet you for a goodlong time to come.'

The girl laughed again: even less composedlythan before; and, darting a hasty look at Sikes,turned her face aside, and bit her lip till theblood came.

'You're a nice one,' added Sikes, as he surveyedher with a contemptuous air, 'to take up thehumane and gen—teel side! A pretty subject forthe child, as you call him, to make a friend of!'

'God Almighty help me, I am!' cried the girlpassionately; 'and I wish I had been struckdead in the street, or had changed places withthem we passed so near to-night, before I hadlent a hand in bringing him here. He's a thief, aliar, a devil, all that's bad, from this night forth.Isn't that enough for the old wretch, withoutblows?'

'Come, come, Sikes,' said the Jew appealing tohim in a remonstratory tone, and motioningtowards the boys, who were eagerly attentive

to all that passed; 'we must have civil words;civil words, Bill.'

'Civil words!' cried the girl, whose passion wasfrightful to see. 'Civil words, you villain! Yes,you deserve 'em from me. I thieved for youwhen I was a child not half as old as this!'pointing to Oliver. 'I have been in the sametrade, and in the same service, for twelve yearssince. Don't you know it? Speak out! Don't youknow it?'

'Well, well,' replied the Jew, with an attempt atpacification; 'and, if you have, it's your living!'

'Aye, it is!' returned the girl; not speaking, butpouring out the words in one continuous andvehement scream. 'It is my living; and the cold,wet, dirty streets are my home; and you're thewretch that drove me to them long ago, andthat'll keep me there, day and night, day andnight, till I die!'

'I shall do you a mischief!' interposed the Jew,goaded by these reproaches; 'a mischief worsethan that, if you say much more!'

The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hairand dress in a transport of passion, made sucha rush at the Jew as would probably have leftsignal marks of her revenge upon him, had nother wrists been seized by Sikes at the rightmoment; upon which, she made a few ineffec-tual struggles, and fainted.

'She's all right now,' said Sikes, laying herdown in a corner. 'She's uncommon strong inthe arms, when she's up in this way.'

The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if itwere a relief to have the disturbance over; butneither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys,seemed to consider it in any other light than acommon occurance incidental to business.

'It's the worst of having to do with women,'said the Jew, replacing his club; 'but they'reclever, and we can't get on, in our line, without'em. Charley, show Oliver to bed.'

'I suppose he'd better not wear his best clothestomorrow, Fagin, had he?' inquired CharleyBates.

'Certainly not,' replied the Jew, reciprocatingthe grin with which Charley put the question.

Master Bates, apparently much delighted withhis commission, took the cleft stick: and ledOliver into an adjacent kitchen, where therewere two or three of the beds on which he hadslept before; and here, with many uncontrolla-ble bursts of laughter, he produced the identi-cal old suit of clothes which Oliver had somuch congratulated himself upon leaving off atMr. Brownlow's; and the accidental display ofwhich, to Fagin, by the Jew who purchased

them, had been the very first clue received, ofhis whereabout.

'Put off the smart ones,' said Charley, 'and I'llgive 'em to Fagin to take care of. What fun it is!'

Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Batesrolling up the new clothes under his arm, de-parted from the room, leaving Oliver in thedark, and locking the door behind him.

The noise of Charley's laughter, and the voiceof Miss Betsy, who opportunely arrived tothrow water over her friend, and perform otherfeminine offices for the promotion of her recov-ery, might have kept many people awake un-der more happy circumstances than those inwhich Oliver was placed. But he was sick andweary; and he soon fell sound asleep.

CHAPTER XVII

OLIVER'S DESTINY CONTINUING UN-PROPITIOUS,BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDONTO INJURE HIS REPUTATION

It is the custom on the stage, in all good mur-derous melodramas, to present the tragic andthe comic scenes, in as regular alternation, asthe layers of red and white in a side of streakybacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed,weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; inthe next scene, his faithful but unconscioussquire regales the audience with a comic song.We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroinein the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: hervirtue and her life alike in danger, drawingforth her dagger to preserve the one at the costof the other; and just as our expectations arewrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle isheard, and we are straightway transported to

the great hall of the castle; where a grey-headedseneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnierbody of vassals, who are free of all sorts ofplaces, from church vaults to palaces, and roamabout in company, carolling perpetually.

Such changes appear absurd; but they are notso unnatural as they would seem at first sight.The transitions in real life from well-spreadboards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit lessstartling; only, there, we are busy actors, in-stead of passive lookers-on, which makes a vastdifference. The actors in the mimic life of thetheatre, are blind to violent transitions andabrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which,presented before the eyes of mere spectators,are at once condemned as outrageous and pre-posterous.

As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapidchanges of time and place, are not only sanc-tioned in books by long usage, but are by many

considered as the great art of authorship: anauthor's skill in his craft being, by such critics,chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmasin which he leaves his characters at the end ofevery chapter: this brief introduction to thepresent one may perhaps be deemed unneces-sary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intima-tion on the part of the historian that he is goingback to the town in which Oliver Twist wasborn; the reader taking it for granted that thereare good and substantial reasons for makingthe journey, or he would not be invited to pro-ceed upon such an expedition.

Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from theworkhouse-gate, and walked with portly car-riage and commanding steps, up the HighStreet. He was in the full bloom and pride ofbeadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were daz-zling in the morning sun; he clutched his canewith the vigorous tenacity of health and power.Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but

this morning it was higher than usual. Therewas an abstraction in his eye, an elevation inhis air, which might have warned an observantstranger that thoughts were passing in the bea-dle's mind, too great for utterance.

Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with thesmall shopkeepers and others who spoke tohim, deferentially, as he passed along. Hemerely returned their salutations with a waveof his hand, and relaxed not in his dignifiedpace, until he reached the farm where Mrs.Mann tended the infant paupers with parochialcare.

'Drat that beadle!' said Mrs. Mann, hearing thewell-known shaking at the garden-gate. 'If itisn't him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr.Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dearme, it IS a pleasure, this is! Come into the par-lour, sir, please.'

The first sentence was addressed to Susan; andthe exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr.Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention andrespect, into the house.

'Mrs. Mann,' said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon,or dropping himself into a seat, as any commonjackanapes would: but letting himself graduallyand slowly down into a chair; 'Mrs. Mann,ma'am, good morning.'

'Well, and good morning to you, sir,' repliedMrs. Mann, with many smiles; 'and hoping youfind yourself well, sir!'

'So-so, Mrs. Mann,' replied the beadle. 'A poro-chial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.'

'Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble,' rejoinedthe lady. And all the infant paupers might havechorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, ifthey had heard it.

'A porochial life, ma'am,' continued Mr. Bum-ble, striking the table with his cane, 'is a life ofworrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but allpublic characters, as I may say, must sufferprosecution.'

Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what thebeadle meant, raised her hands with a look ofsympathy, and sighed.

'Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!' said thebeadle.

Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighedagain: evidently to the satisfaction of the publiccharacter: who, repressing a complacent smileby looking sternly at his cocked hat, said,

'Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.'

'Lauk, Mr. Bumble!' cried Mrs. Mann, startingback.

'To London, ma'am,' resumed the inflexiblebeadle, 'by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs.Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about asettlement; and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter be-fore the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell.

And I very much question,' added Mr. Bumble,drawing himself up, 'whether the ClerkinwellSessions will not find themselves in the wrongbox before they have done with me.'

'Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir,'said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly.

'The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it uponthemselves, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble; 'and ifthe Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come offrather worse than they expected, the Clerkin-well Sessions have only themselves to thank.'

There was so much determination and depth ofpurpose about the menacing manner in which

Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words,that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them.At length she said,

'You're going by coach, sir? I thought it wasalways usual to send them paupers in carts.'

'That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann,' said thebeadle. 'We put the sick paupers into open cartsin the rainy weather, to prevent their takingcold.'

'Oh!' said Mrs. Mann.

'The opposition coach contracts for these two;and takes them cheap,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Theyare both in a very low state, and we find itwould come two pound cheaper to move 'emthan to bury 'em—that is, if we can throw 'emupon another parish, which I think we shall beable to do, if they don't die upon the road tospite us. Ha! ha! ha!'

When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while,his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; andhe became grave.

'We are forgetting business, ma'am,' said thebeadle; 'here is your porochial stipend for themonth.'

Mr. Bumble produced some silver moneyrolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; andrequested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.

'It's very much blotted, sir,' said the farmer ofinfants; 'but it's formal enough, I dare say.Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very muchobliged to you, I'm sure.'

Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledg-ment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired howthe children were.

'Bless their dear little hearts!' said Mrs. Mannwith emotion, 'they're as well as can be, the

dears! Of course, except the two that died lastweek. And little Dick.'

'Isn't that boy no better?' inquired Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Mann shook her head.

'He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposedporochial child that,' said Mr. Bumble angrily.'Where is he?'

'I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir,' repliedMrs. Mann. 'Here, you Dick!'

After some calling, Dick was discovered. Hav-ing had his face put under the pump, and driedupon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into theawful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.

The child was pale and thin; his cheeks weresunken; and his eyes large and bright. Thescanty parish dress, the livery of his misery,hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young

limbs had wasted away, like those of an oldman.

Such was the little being who stood tremblingbeneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lifthis eyes from the floor; and dreading even tohear the beadle's voice.

'Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinateboy?' said Mrs. Mann.

The child meekly raised his eyes, and encoun-tered those of Mr. Bumble.

'What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?'inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocular-ity.

'Nothing, sir,' replied the child faintly.

'I should think not,' said Mrs. Mann, who hadof course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble'shumour.

'You want for nothing, I'm sure.'

'I should like—' faltered the child.

'Hey-day!' interposed Mr. Mann, 'I supposeyou're going to say that you DO want for some-thing, now? Why, you little wretch—'

'Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!' said the beadle, raisinghis hand with a show of authority. 'Like what,sir, eh?'

'I should like,' faltered the child, 'if somebodythat can write, would put a few words downfor me on a piece of paper, and fold it up andseal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in theground.'

'Why, what does the boy mean?' exclaimed Mr.Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wanaspect of the child had made some impression:accustomed as he was to such things. 'What doyou mean, sir?'

'I should like,' said the child, 'to leave my dearlove to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him knowhow often I have sat by myself and cried tothink of his wandering about in the dark nightswith nobody to help him. And I should like totell him,' said the child pressing his small handstogether, and speaking with great fervour, 'thatI was glad to die when I was very young; for,perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and hadgrown old, my little sister who is in Heaven,might forget me, or be unlike me; and it wouldbe so much happier if we were both childrenthere together.'

Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, fromhead to foot, with indescribable astonishment;and, turning to his companion, said, 'They're allin one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-daciousOliver had demogalized them all!'

'I couldn't have believed it, sir' said Mrs Mann,holding up her hands, and looking malignantly

at Dick. 'I never see such a hardened littlewretch!'

'Take him away, ma'am!' said Mr. Bumble im-periously. 'This must be stated to the board,Mrs. Mann.

'I hope the gentleman will understand that itisn't my fault, sir?' said Mrs. Mann, whimper-ing pathetically.

'They shall understand that, ma'am; they shallbe acquainted with the true state of the case,'said Mr. Bumble. 'There; take him away, I can'tbear the sight on him.'

Dick was immediately taken away, and lockedup in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly after-wards took himself off, to prepare for his jour-ney.

At six o'clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: hav-ing exchanged his cocked hat for a round one,

and encased his person in a blue great-coatwith a cape to it: took his place on the outsideof the coach, accompanied by the criminalswhose settlement was disputed; with whom, indue course of time, he arrived in London.

He experienced no other crosses on the way,than those which originated in the perversebehaviour of the two paupers, who persisted inshivering, and complaining of the cold, in amanner which, Mr. Bumble declared, causedhis teeth to chatter in his head, and made himfeel quite uncomfortable; although he had agreat-coat on.

Having disposed of these evil-minded personsfor the night, Mr. Bumble sat himself down inthe house at which the coach stopped; and tooka temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, andporter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water onthe chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire;and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-

prevalent sin of discontent and complaining,composed himself to read the paper.

The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bum-ble's eye rested, was the following advertise-ment.

'FIVE GUINEAS REWARD'Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist,absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday eve-ning last, from his home, at Pentonville; andhas not since been heard of. The above rewardwill be paid to any person who will give suchinformation as will lead to the discovery of thesaid Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any lightupon his previous history, in which the adver-tiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.'

And then followed a full description of Oliver'sdress, person, appearance, and disappearance:with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow atfull length.

Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the adver-tisement, slowly and carefully, three severaltimes; and in something more than five min-utes was on his way to Pentonville: having ac-tually, in his excitement, left the glass of hotgin-and-water, untasted.

'Is Mr. Brownlow at home?' inquired Mr. Bum-ble of the girl who opened the door.

To this inquiry the girl returned the not un-common, but rather evasive reply of 'I don'tknow; where do you come from?'

Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, inexplanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin,who had been listening at the parlour door,hastened into the passage in a breathless state.

'Come in, come in,' said the old lady: 'I knewwe should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew weshould! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I saidso all along.'

Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurriedback into the parlour again; and seating herselfon a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who wasnot quite so susceptible, had run upstairsmeanwhile; and now returned with a requestthat Mr. Bumble would follow her immedi-ately: which he did.

He was shown into the little back study, wheresat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig,with decanters and glasses before them. Thelatter gentleman at once burst into the exclama-tion:

'A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head.'

'Pray don't interrupt just now,' said Mr.Brownlow. 'Take a seat, will you?'

Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite con-founded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's man-ner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to

obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle'scountenance; and said, with a little impatience,

'Now, sir, you come in consequence of havingseen the advertisement?'

'Yes, sir,' said Mr. Bumble.

'And you ARE a beadle, are you not?' inquiredMr. Grimwig.

'I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,' rejoinedMr. Bumble proudly.

'Of course,' observed Mr. Grimwig aside to hisfriend, 'I knew he was. A beadle all over!'

Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to imposesilence on his friend, and resumed:

'Do you know where this poor boy is now?'

'No more than nobody,' replied Mr. Bumble.

'Well, what DO you know of him?' inquired theold gentleman. 'Speak out, my friend, if youhave anything to say. What DO you know ofhim?'

'You don't happen to know any good of him,do you?' said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after anattentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features.

Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry veryquickly, shook his head with portentous so-lemnity.

'You see?' said Mr. Grimwig, looking trium-phantly at Mr. Brownlow.

Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr.Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and re-quested him to communicate what he knewregarding Oliver, in as few words as possible.

Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned hiscoat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a

retrospective manner; and, after a few mo-ments' reflection, commenced his story.

It would be tedious if given in the beadle'swords: occupying, as it did, some twenty min-utes in the telling; but the sum and substance ofit was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of lowand vicious parents. That he had, from hisbirth, displayed no better qualities than treach-ery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had ter-minated his brief career in the place of his birth,by making a sanguinary and cowardly attackon an unoffending lad, and running away inthe night-time from his master's house. In proofof his really being the person he representedhimself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table thepapers he had brought to town. Folding hisarms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow'sobservations.

'I fear it is all too true,' said the old gentlemansorrowfully, after looking over the papers. 'Thisis not much for your intelligence; but I would

gladly have given you treble the money, if ithad been favourable to the boy.'

It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble hadbeen possessed of this information at an earlierperiod of the interview, he might have im-parted a very different colouring to his littlehistory. It was too late to do it now, however;so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketingthe five guineas, withdrew.

Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro forsome minutes; evidently so much disturbed bythe beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig for-bore to vex him further.

At length he stopped, and rang the bell vio-lently.

'Mrs. Bedwin,' said Mr. Brownlow, when thehousekeeper appeared; 'that boy, Oliver, is animposter.'

'It can't be, sir. It cannot be,' said the old ladyenergetically.

'I tell you he is,' retorted the old gentleman.'What do you mean by can't be? We have justheard a full account of him from his birth; andhe has been a thorough-paced little villain, allhis life.'

'I never will believe it, sir,' replied the old lady,firmly. 'Never!'

'You old women never believe anything butquack-doctors, and lying story-books,' growledMr. Grimwig. 'I knew it all along. Why didn'tyou take my advise in the beginning; youwould if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh?He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!'And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flour-ish.

'He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,' re-torted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. 'I know what

children are, sir; and have done these fortyyears; and people who can't say the same,shouldn't say anything about them. That's myopinion!'

This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was abachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gen-tleman but a smile, the old lady tossed herhead, and smoothed down her apron prepara-tory to another speech, when she was stoppedby Mr. Brownlow.

'Silence!' said the old gentleman, feigning ananger he was far from feeling. 'Never let mehear the boy's name again. I rang to tell youthat. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! Youmay leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! Iam in earnest.'

There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's thatnight.

Oliver's heart sank within him, when hethought of his good friends; it was well for himthat he could not know what they had heard, orit might have broken outright.

CHAPTER XVIII

HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME INTHE IMPROVING SOCIETYOF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS

About noon next day, when the Dodger andMaster Bates had gone out to pursue their cus-tomary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the oppor-tunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on thecrying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearlydemonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordi-nary extent, in wilfully absenting himself fromthe society of his anxious friends; and, stillmore, in endeavouring to escape from them

after so much trouble and expense had beenincurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid greatstress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in,and cherished him, when, without his timelyaid, he might have perished with hunger; andhe related the dismal and affecting history of ayoung lad whom, in his philanthropy, he hadsuccoured under parallel circumstances, butwho, proving unworthy of his confidence andevincing a desire to communicate with the po-lice, had unfortunately come to be hanged atthe Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did notseek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, butlamented with tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of theyoung person in question, had rendered it nec-essary that he should become the victim of cer-tain evidence for the crown: which, if it werenot precisely true, was indispensably necessaryfor the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few se-lect friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing arather disagreeable picture of the discomforts

of hanging; and, with great friendliness andpoliteness of manner, expressed his anxioushopes that he might never be obliged to submitOliver Twist to that unpleasant operation.

Little Oliver's blood ran cold, as he listened tothe Jew's words, and imperfectly compre-hended the dark threats conveyed in them.That it was possible even for justice itself toconfound the innocent with the guilty whenthey were in accidental companionship, heknew already; and that deeply-laid plans forthe destruction of inconveniently knowing orover-communicative persons, had been reallydevised and carried out by the Jew on moreoccasions than one, he thought by no meansunlikely, when he recollected the general na-ture of the altercations between that gentlemanand Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear referenceto some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As heglanced timidly up, and met the Jew's search-ing look, he felt that his pale face and trembling

limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished bythat wary old gentleman.

The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver onthe head, and said, that if he kept himself quiet,and applied himself to business, he saw theywould be very good friends yet. Then, takinghis hat, and covering himself with an oldpatched great-coat, he went out, and locked theroom-door behind him.

And so Oliver remained all that day, and forthe greater part of many subsequent days, see-ing nobody, between early morning and mid-night, and left during the long hours to com-mune with his own thoughts. Which, neverfailing to revert to his kind friends, and theopinion they must long ago have formed ofhim, were sad indeed.

After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left theroom-door unlocked; and he was at liberty towander about the house.

It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairshad great high wooden chimney-pieces andlarge doors, with panelled walls and cornices tothe ceiling; which, although they were blackwith neglect and dust, were ornamented invarious ways. From all of these tokens Oliverconcluded that a long time ago, before the oldJew was born, it had belonged to better people,and had perhaps been quite gay and hand-some: dismal and dreary as it looked now.

Spiders had built their webs in the angles of thewalls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliverwalked softly into a room, the mice wouldscamper across the floor, and run back terrifiedto their holes. With these exceptions, there wasneither sight nor sound of any living thing; andoften, when it grew dark, and he was tired ofwandering from room to room, he wouldcrouch in the corner of the passage by thestreet-door, to be as near living people as hecould; and would remain there, listening and

counting the hours, until the Jew or the boysreturned.

In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters werefast closed: the bars which held them werescrewed tight into the wood; the only lightwhich was admitted, stealing its way throughround holes at the top: which made the roomsmore gloomy, and filled them with strangeshadows. There was a back-garret windowwith rusty bars outside, which had no shutter;and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a mel-ancholy face for hours together; but nothingwas to be descried from it but a confused andcrowded mass of housetops, blackened chim-neys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, agrizzly head might be seen, peering over theparapet-wall of a distant house; but it wasquickly withdrawn again; and as the windowof Oliver's observatory was nailed down, anddimmed with the rain and smoke of years, itwas as much as he could do to make out the

forms of the different objects beyond, withoutmaking any attempt to be seen or heard,—which he had as much chance of being, as if hehad lived inside the ball of St. Paul's Cathedral.

One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Batesbeing engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his headto evince some anxiety regarding the decora-tion of his person (to do him justice, this was byno means an habitual weakness with him); and,with this end and aim, he condescendinglycommanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet,straightway.

Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful;too happy to have some faces, however bad, tolook upon; too desirous to conciliate thoseabout him when he could honestly do so; tothrow any objection in the way of this proposal.So he at once expressed his readiness; and,kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger satupon the table so that he could take his foot in

his laps, he applied himself to a process whichMr. Dawkins designated as 'japanning his trot-ter-cases.' The phrase, rendered into plain Eng-lish, signifieth, cleaning his boots.

Whether it was the sense of freedom and inde-pendence which a rational animal may be sup-posed to feel when he sits on a table in an easyattitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg care-lessly to and fro, and having his boots cleanedall the time, without even the past trouble ofhaving taken them off, or the prospective mis-ery of putting them on, to disturb his reflec-tions; or whether it was the goodness of thetobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger,or the mildness of the beer that mollified histhoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for thenonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm,foreign to his general nature. He looked downon Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for abrief space; and then, raising his head, and

heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction,and half to Master Bates:

'What a pity it is he isn't a prig!'

'Ah!' said Master Charles Bates; 'he don't knowwhat's good for him.'

The Dodger sighed again, and resumed hispipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked,for some seconds, in silence.

'I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?'said the Dodger mournfully.

'I think I know that,' replied Oliver, looking up.'It's a the—; you're one, are you not?' inquiredOliver, checking himself.

'I am,' replied the Doger. 'I'd scorn to be any-thing else.' Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a fero-cious cock, after delivering this sentiment, andlooked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he

would feel obliged by his saying anything tothe contrary.

'I am,' repeated the Dodger. 'So's Charley. So'sFagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy. So's Bet. So we allare, down to the dog. And he's the downiestone of the lot!'

'And the least given to peaching,' added Char-ley Bates.

'He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box,for fear of committing himself; no, not if youtied him up in one, and left him there withoutwittles for a fortnight,' said the Dodger.

'Not a bit of it,' observed Charley.

'He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at anystrange cove that laughs or sings when he's incompany!' pursued the Dodger. 'Won't hegrowl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing!

And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of hisbreed! Oh, no!'

'He's an out-and-out Christian,' said Charley.

This was merely intended as a tribute to theanimal's abilities, but it was an appropriateremark in another sense, if Master Bates hadonly known it; for there are a good many ladiesand gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-outChristians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes' dog,there exist strong and singular points of resem-blance.

'Well, well,' said the Dodger, recurring to thepoint from which they had strayed: with thatmindfulness of his profession which influencedall his proceedings. 'This hasn't go anything todo with young Green here.'

'No more it has,' said Charley. 'Why don't youput yourself under Fagin, Oliver?'

'And make your fortun' out of hand?' added theDodger, with a grin.

'And so be able to retire on your property, anddo the gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very nextleap-year but four that ever comes, and theforty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,' saidCharley Bates.

'I don't like it,' rejoined Oliver, timidly; 'I wishthey would let me go. I—I—would rather go.'

'And Fagin would RATHER not!' rejoinedCharley.

Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it mightbe dangerous to express his feelings moreopenly, he only sighed, and went on with hisboot-cleaning.

'Go!' exclaimed the Dodger. 'Why, where's yourspirit?' Don't you take any pride out of your-

self? Would you go and be dependent on yourfriends?'

'Oh, blow that!' said Master Bates: drawing twoor three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, andtossing them into a cupboard, 'that's too mean;that is.'

'I couldn't do it,' said the Dodger, with an air ofhaughty disgust.

'You can leave your friends, though,' saidOliver with a half smile; 'and let them be pun-ished for what you did.'

'That,' rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of hispipe, 'That was all out of consideration for Fa-gin, 'cause the traps know that we work to-gether, and he might have got into trouble if wehadn't made our lucky; that was the move,wasn't it, Charley?'

Master Bates nodded assent, and would havespoken, but the recollection of Oliver's flightcame so suddenly upon him, that the smoke hewas inhaling got entangled with a laugh, andwent up into his head, and down into histhroat: and brought on a fit of coughing andstamping, about five minutes long.

'Look here!' said the Dodger, drawing forth ahandful of shillings and halfpence. 'Here's ajolly life! What's the odds where it comes from?Here, catch hold; there's plenty more wherethey were took from. You won't, won't you?Oh, you precious flat!'

'It's naughty, ain't it, Oliver?' inquired CharleyBates. 'He'll come to be scragged, won't he?'

'I don't know what that means,' replied Oliver.

'Something in this way, old feller,' said Charly.As he said it, Master Bates caught up an end ofhis neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air,

dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked acurious sound through his teeth; thereby indi-cating, by a lively pantomimic representation,that scragging and hanging were one and thesame thing.

'That's what it means,' said Charley. 'Look howhe stares, Jack!

I never did see such prime company as that 'ereboy; he'll be the death of me, I know he will.'Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartilyagain, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes.

'You've been brought up bad,' said the Dodger,surveying his boots with much satisfactionwhen Oliver had polished them. 'Fagin willmake something of you, though, or you'll bethe first he ever had that turned out unprofit-able. You'd better begin at once; for you'll cometo the trade long before you think of it; andyou're only losing time, Oliver.'

Master Bates backed this advice with sundrymoral admonitions of his own: which, beingexhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkinslaunched into a glowing description of the nu-merous pleasures incidental to the life they led,interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliverthat the best thing he could do, would be tosecure Fagin's favour without more delay, bythe means which they themselves had em-ployed to gain it.

'And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,' saidthe Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking thedoor above, 'if you don't take fogels and tick-ers—'

'What's the good of talking in that way?' inter-posed Master Bates; 'he don't know what youmean.'

'If you don't take pocket-handkechers andwatches,' said the Dodger, reducing his conver-sation to the level of Oliver's capacity, 'some

other cove will; so that the coves that lose 'emwill be all the worse, and you'll be all theworse, too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the bet-ter, except the chaps wot gets them—andyou've just as good a right to them as theyhave.'

'To be sure, to be sure!' said the Jew, who hadentered unseen by Oliver. 'It all lies in a nut-shell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger'sword for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands thecatechism of his trade.'

The old man rubbed his hands gleefully to-gether, as he corroborated the Dodger's reason-ing in these terms; and chuckled with delight athis pupil's proficiency.

The conversation proceeded no farther at thistime, for the Jew had returned home accompa-nied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whomOliver had never seen before, but who was ac-costed by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and

who, having lingered on the stairs to exchangea few gallantries with the lady, now made hisappearance.

Mr. Chitling was older in years than theDodger: having perhaps numbered eighteenwinters; but there was a degree of deference inhis deportment towards that young gentlemanwhich seemed to indicate that he felt himselfconscious of a slight inferiority in point of gen-ius and professional aquirements. He had smalltwinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore afur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustiantrousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, intruth, rather out of repair; but he excused him-self to the company by stating that his 'time'was only out an hour before; and that, in con-sequence of having worn the regimentals forsix weeks past, he had not been able to bestowany attention on his private clothes. Mr.Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation,that the new way of fumigating clothes up

yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for itburnt holes in them, and there was no remedyagainst the County. The same remark he con-sidered to apply to the regulation mode of cut-ting the hair: which he held to be decidedlyunlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observa-tions by stating that he had not touched a dropof anything for forty-two moral long hard-working days; and that he 'wished he might bebusted if he warn't as dry as a lime-basket.'

'Where do you think the gentleman has comefrom, Oliver?' inquired the Jew, with a grin, asthe other boys put a bottle of spirits on the ta-ble.

'I—I—don't know, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Who's that?' inquired Tom Chitling, casting acontemptuous look at Oliver.

'A young friend of mine, my dear,' replied theJew.

'He's in luck, then,' said the young man, with ameaning look at Fagin. 'Never mind where Icame from, young 'un; you'll find your waythere, soon enough, I'll bet a crown!'

At this sally, the boys laughed. After somemore jokes on the same subject, they exchangeda few short whispers with Fagin; and with-drew.

After some words apart between the last comerand Fagin, they drew their chairs towards thefire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sitby him, led the conversation to the topics mostcalculated to interest his hearers. These were,the great advantages of the trade, the profi-ciency of the Dodger, the amiability of CharleyBates, and the liberality of the Jew himself. Atlength these subjects displayed signs of beingthoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did thesame: for the house of correction becomes fa-tiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy accord-

ingly withdrew; and left the party to their re-pose.

From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone;but was placed in almost constant communica-tion with the two boys, who played the oldgame with the Jew every day: whether for theirown improvement or Oliver's, Mr. Fagin bestknew. At other times the old man would tellthem stories of robberies he had committed inhis younger days: mixed up with so much thatwas droll and curious, that Oliver could nothelp laughing heartily, and showing that hewas amused in spite of all his better feelings.

In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in histoils. Having prepared his mind, by solitudeand gloom, to prefer any society to the compan-ionship of his own sad thoughts in such adreary place, he was now slowly instilling intohis soul the poison which he hoped wouldblacken it, and change its hue for ever.

CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DIS-CUSSED AND DETERMINED ON

It was a chill, damp, windy night, when theJew: buttoning his great-coat tight round hisshrivelled body, and pulling the collar up overhis ears so as completely to obscure the lowerpart of his face: emerged from his den. Hepaused on the step as the door was locked andchained behind him; and having listened whilethe boys made all secure, and until their re-treating footsteps were no longer audible, slunkdown the street as quickly as he could.

The house to which Oliver had been conveyed,was in the neighborhood of Whitechapel. TheJew stopped for an instant at the corner of the

street; and, glancing suspiciously round,crossed the road, and struck off in the directionof the Spitalfields.

The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a blackmist hung over the streets; the rain fell slug-gishly down, and everything felt cold andclammy to the touch. It seemed just the nightwhen it befitted such a being as the Jew to beabroad. As he glided stealthily along, creepingbeneath the shelter of the walls and doorways,the hideous old man seemed like some loath-some reptile, engendered in the slime anddarkness through which he moved: crawlingforth, by night, in search of some rich offal for ameal.

He kept on his course, through many windingand narrow ways, until he reached BethnalGreen; then, turning suddenly off to the left, hesoon became involved in a maze of the meanand dirty streets which abound in that closeand densely-populated quarter.

The Jew was evidently too familiar with theground he traversed to be at all bewildered,either by the darkness of the night, or the intri-cacies of the way. He hurried through severalalleys and streets, and at length turned intoone, lighted only by a single lamp at the fartherend. At the door of a house in this street, heknocked; having exchanged a few mutteredwords with the person who opened it, hewalked upstairs.

A dog growled as he touched the handle of aroom-door; and a man's voice demanded whowas there.

'Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,' said the Jewlooking in.

'Bring in your body then,' said Sikes. 'Lie down,you stupid brute! Don't you know the devilwhen he's got a great-coat on?'

Apparently, the dog had been somewhat de-ceived by Mr. Fagin's outer garment; for as theJew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the backof a chair, he retired to the corner from whichhe had risen: wagging his tail as he went, toshow that he was as well satisfied as it was inhis nature to be.

'Well!' said Sikes.

'Well, my dear,' replied the Jew.—'Ah! Nancy.'

The latter recognition was uttered with justenough of embarrassment to imply a doubt ofits reception; for Mr. Fagin and his youngfriend had not met, since she had interfered inbehalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, ifhe had any, were speedily removed by theyoung lady's behaviour. She took her feet offthe fender, pushed back her chair, and badeFagin draw up his, without saying more aboutit: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.

'It is cold, Nancy dear,' said the Jew, as hewarmed his skinny hands over the fire. 'Itseems to go right through one,' added the oldman, touching his side.

'It must be a piercer, if it finds its way throughyour heart,' said Mr. Sikes. 'Give him some-thing to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, makehaste! It's enough to turn a man ill, to see hislean old carcase shivering in that way, like augly ghost just rose from the grave.'

Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cup-board, in which there were many: which, tojudge from the diversity of their appearance,were filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikespouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jewdrink it off.

'Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,' replied theJew, putting down the glass after just settinghis lips to it.

'What! You're afraid of our getting the better ofyou, are you?' inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes onthe Jew. 'Ugh!'

With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikesseized the glass, and threw the remainder of itscontents into the ashes: as a preparatory cere-mony to filling it again for himself: which hedid at once.

The Jew glanced round the room, as his com-panion tossed down the second glassful; not incuriousity, for he had seen it often before; butin a restless and suspicious manner habitual tohim. It was a meanly furnished apartment, withnothing but the contents of the closet to inducethe belief that its occupier was anything but aworking man; and with no more suspiciousarticles displayed to view than two or threeheavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a'life-preserver' that hung over the chimney-piece.

'There,' said Sikes, smacking his lips. 'Now I'mready.'

'For business?' inquired the Jew.

'For business,' replied Sikes; 'so say whatyou've got to say.'

'About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?' said the Jew,drawing his chair forward, and speaking in avery low voice.

'Yes. Wot about it?' inquired Sikes.

'Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,' said theJew. 'He knows what I mean, Nancy; don't he?'

'No, he don't,' sneered Mr. Sikes. 'Or he won't,and that's the same thing. Speak out, and callthings by their right names; don't sit there,winking and blinking, and talking to me inhints, as if you warn't the very first thatthought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?'

'Hush, Bill, hush!' said the Jew, who had in vainattempted to stop this burst of indignation;'somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebodywill hear us.'

'Let 'em hear!' said Sikes; 'I don't care.' But asMr. Sikes DID care, on reflection, he droppedhis voice as he said the words, and grewcalmer.

'There, there,' said the Jew, coaxingly. 'It wasonly my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear,about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to bedone, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Suchplate, my dear, such plate!' said the Jew: rub-bing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in arapture of anticipation.

'Not at all,' replied Sikes coldly.

'Not to be done at all!' echoed the Jew, leaningback in his chair.

'No, not at all,' rejoined Sikes. 'At least it can'tbe a put-up job, as we expected.'

'Then it hasn't been properly gone about,' saidthe Jew, turning pale with anger. 'Don't tell me!'

'But I will tell you,' retorted Sikes. 'Who are youthat's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackithas been hanging about the place for a fort-night, and he can't get one of the servants inline.'

'Do you mean to tell me, Bill,' said the Jew: sof-tening as the other grew heated: 'that neither ofthe two men in the house can be got over?'

'Yes, I do mean to tell you so,' replied Sikes.'The old lady has had 'em these twenty years;and if you were to give 'em five hundredpound, they wouldn't be in it.'

'But do you mean to say, my dear,' remon-strated the Jew, 'that the women can't be gotover?'

'Not a bit of it,' replied Sikes.

'Not by flash Toby Crackit?' said the Jew in-credulously. 'Think what women are, Bill,'

'No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,' repliedSikes. 'He says he's worn sham whiskers, and acanary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he'sbeen loitering down there, and it's all of no use.'

'He should have tried mustachios and a pair ofmilitary trousers, my dear,' said the Jew.

'So he did,' rejoined Sikes, 'and they warn't ofno more use than the other plant.'

The Jew looked blank at this information. Afterruminating for some minutes with his chinsunk on his breast, he raised his head and said,

with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit re-ported aright, he feared the game was up.

'And yet,' said the old man, dropping his handson his knees, 'it's a sad thing, my dear, to loseso much when we had set our hearts upon it.'

'So it is,' said Mr. Sikes. 'Worse luck!'

A long silence ensued; during which the Jewwas plunged in deep thought, with his facewrinkled into an expression of villainy per-fectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtivelyfrom time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful ofirritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyesfixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to allthat passed.

'Fagin,' said Sikes, abruptly breaking the still-ness that prevailed; 'is it worth fifty shinersextra, if it's safely done from the outside?'

'Yes,' said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.

'Is it a bargain?' inquired Sikes.

'Yes, my dear, yes,' rejoined the Jew; his eyesglistening, and every muscle in his face work-ing, with the excitement that the inquiry hadawakened.

'Then,' said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew'shand, with some disdain, 'let it come off assoon as you like. Toby and me were over thegarden-wall the night afore last, sounding thepanels of the door and shutters. The crib'sbarred up at night like a jail; but there's onepart we can crack, safe and softly.'

'Which is that, Bill?' asked the Jew eagerly.

'Why,' whispered Sikes, 'as you cross thelawn—'

'Yes?' said the Jew, bending his head forward,with his eyes almost starting out of it.

'Umph!' cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl,scarcely moving her head, looked suddenlyround, and pointed for an instant to the Jew'sface. 'Never mind which part it is. You can't doit without me, I know; but it's best to be on thesafe side when one deals with you.'

'As you like, my dear, as you like' replied theJew. 'Is there no help wanted, but yours andToby's?'

'None,' said Sikes. 'Cept a centre-bit and a boy.The first we've both got; the second you mustfind us.'

'A boy!' exclaimed the Jew. 'Oh! then it's apanel, eh?'

'Never mind wot it is!' replied Sikes. 'I want aboy, and he musn't be a big 'un. Lord!' said Mr.Sikes, reflectively, 'if I'd only got that youngboy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kepthim small on purpose, and let him out by the

job. But the father gets lagged; and then theJuvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takesthe boy away from a trade where he was earn-ing money, teaches him to read and write, andin time makes a 'prentice of him. And so theygo on,' said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with therecollection of his wrongs, 'so they go on; and,if they'd got money enough (which it's a Provi-dence they haven't,) we shouldn't have half adozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year ortwo.'

'No more we should,' acquiesced the Jew, whohad been considering during this speech, andhad only caught the last sentence. 'Bill!'

'What now?' inquired Sikes.

The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, whowas still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by asign, that he would have her told to leave theroom. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impa-tiently, as if he thought the precaution unneces-

sary; but complied, nevertheless, by requestingMiss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.

'You don't want any beer,' said Nancy, foldingher arms, and retaining her seat very compos-edly.

'I tell you I do!' replied Sikes.

'Nonsense,' rejoined the girl coolly, 'Go on, Fa-gin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; heneedn't mind me.'

The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one tothe other in some surprise.

'Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fa-gin?' he asked at length. 'You've known herlong enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. Sheain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?'

'I should think not!' replied the young lady:drawing her chair up to the table, and puttingher elbows upon it.

'No, no, my dear, I know you're not,' said theJew; 'but—' and again the old man paused.

'But wot?' inquired Sikes.

'I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps beout of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was theother night,' replied the Jew.

At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into aloud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy,shook her head with an air of defiance, andburst into sundry exclamations of 'Keep thegame a-going!' 'Never say die!' and the like.These seemed to have the effect of re-assuringboth gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his headwith a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as didMr. Sikes likewise.

'Now, Fagin,' said Nancy with a laugh. 'Tell Billat once, about Oliver!'

'Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpestgirl I ever saw!' said the Jew, patting her on theneck. 'It WAS about Oliver I was going tospeak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!'

'What about him?' demanded Sikes.

'He's the boy for you, my dear,' replied the Jewin a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on theside of his nose, and grinning frightfully.

'He!' exclaimed. Sikes.

'Have him, Bill!' said Nancy. 'I would, if I wasin your place. He mayn't be so much up, as anyof the others; but that's not what you want, ifhe's only to open a door for you. Depend uponit he's a safe one, Bill.'

'I know he is,' rejoined Fagin. 'He's been ingood training these last few weeks, and it'stime he began to work for his bread. Besides,the others are all too big.'

'Well, he is just the size I want,' said Mr. Sikes,ruminating.

'And will do everything you want, Bill, mydear,' interposed the Jew; 'he can't help himself.That is, if you frighten him enough.'

'Frighten him!' echoed Sikes. 'It'll be no shamfrightening, mind you. If there's anything queerabout him when we once get into the work; infor a penny, in for a pound. You won't see himalive again, Fagin. Think of that, before yousend him. Mark my words!' said the robber,poising a crowbar, which he had drawn fromunder the bedstead.

'I've thought of it all,' said the Jew with energy.'I've—I've had my eye upon him, my dears,close—close. Once let him feel that he is one ofus; once fill his mind with the idea that he hasbeen a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life.Oho! It couldn't have come about better! Theold man crossed his arms upon his breast; and,

drawing his head and shoulders into a heap,literally hugged himself for joy.

'Ours!' said Sikes. 'Yours, you mean.'

'Perhaps I do, my dear,' said the Jew, with ashrill chuckle. 'Mine, if you like, Bill.'

'And wot,' said Sikes, scowling fiercely on hisagreeable friend, 'wot makes you take so muchpains about one chalk-faced kid, when youknow there are fifty boys snoozing aboutCommon Garden every night, as you mightpick and choose from?'

'Because they're of no use to me, my dear,' re-plied the Jew, with some confusion, 'not worththe taking. Their looks convict 'em when theyget into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With thisboy, properly managed, my dears, I could dowhat I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides,'said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, 'hehas us now if he could only give us leg-bail

again; and he must be in the same boat with us.Never mind how he came there; it's quiteenough for my power over him that he was in arobbery; that's all I want. Now, how much bet-ter this is, than being obliged to put the poorleetle boy out of the way—which would bedangerous, and we should lose by it besides.'

'When is it to be done?' asked Nancy, stoppingsome turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr.Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which hereceived Fagin's affectation of humanity.

'Ah, to be sure,' said the Jew; 'when is it to bedone, Bill?'

'I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,' rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, 'if heheerd nothing from me to the contrairy.'

'Good,' said the Jew; 'there's no moon.'

'No,' rejoined Sikes.

'It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, isit?' asked the Jew.

Sikes nodded.

'And about—'

'Oh, ah, it's all planned,' rejoined Sikes, inter-rupting him. 'Never mind particulars. You'dbetter bring the boy here to-morrow night. Ishall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak.Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melt-ing-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do.'

After some discussion, in which all three tookan active part, it was decided that Nancyshould repair to the Jew's next evening whenthe night had set in, and bring Oliver awaywith her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if heevinced any disinclination to the task, he wouldbe more willing to accompany the girl who hadso recently interfered in his behalf, than any-body else. It was also solemnly arranged that

poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the con-templated expedition, be unreservedly con-signed to the care and custody of Mr. WilliamSikes; and further, that the said Sikes shoulddeal with him as he thought fit; and should notbe held responsible by the Jew for any mis-chance or evil that might be necessary to visithim: it being understood that, to render thecompact in this respect binding, any represen-tations made by Mr. Sikes on his return shouldbe required to be confirmed and corroborated,in all important particulars, by the testimony offlash Toby Crackit.

These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes pro-ceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and toflourish the crowbar in an alarming manner;yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusicalsnatches of song, mingled with wild execra-tions. At length, in a fit of professional enthusi-asm, he insisted upon producing his box ofhousebreaking tools: which he had no sooner

stumbled in with, and opened for the purposeof explaining the nature and properties of thevarious implements it contained, and the pecu-liar beauties of their construction, than he fellover the box upon the floor, and went to sleepwhere he fell.

'Good-night, Nancy,' said the Jew, mufflinghimself up as before.

'Good-night.'

Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her,narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl.She was as true and earnest in the matter asToby Crackit himself could be.

The Jew again bade her good-night, and, be-stowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form ofMr. Sikes while her back was turned, gropeddownstairs.

'Always the way!' muttered the Jew to himselfas he turned homeward. 'The worst of thesewomen is, that a very little thing serves to callup some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best ofthem is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The managainst the child, for a bag of gold!'

Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflec-tions, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mudand mire, to his gloomy abode: where theDodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting hisreturn.

'Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,' washis first remark as they descended the stairs.

'Hours ago,' replied the Dodger, throwing opena door. 'Here he is!'

The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bedupon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sad-ness, and the closeness of his prison, that helooked like death; not death as it shows in

shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wearswhen life has just departed; when a young andgentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven,and the gross air of the world has not had timeto breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.

'Not now,' said the Jew, turning softly away.'To-morrow. To-morrow.'

CHAPTER XX

WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVERTO MR. WILLIAM SIKES

When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was agood deal surprised to find that a new pair ofshoes, with strong thick soles, had been placedat his bedside; and that his old shoes had beenremoved. At first, he was pleased with the dis-covery: hoping that it might be the forerunner

of his release; but such thoughts were quicklydispelled, on his sitting down to breakfastalong with the Jew, who told him, in a tone andmanner which increased his alarm, that he wasto be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes thatnight.

'To—to—stop there, sir?' asked Oliver, anx-iously.

'No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,' replied theJew. 'We shouldn't like to lose you. Don't beafraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again.Ha! ha! ha! We won't be so cruel as to send youaway, my dear. Oh no, no!'

The old man, who was stooping over the firetoasting a piece of bread, looked round as hebantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if toshow that he knew he would still be very gladto get away if he could.

'I suppose,' said the Jew, fixing his eyes onOliver, 'you want to know what you're going toBill's for—-eh, my dear?'

Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that theold thief had been reading his thoughts; butboldly said, Yes, he did want to know.

'Why, do you think?' inquired Fagin, parryingthe question.

'Indeed I don't know, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Bah!' said the Jew, turning away with a disap-pointed countenance from a close perusal of theboy's face. 'Wait till Bill tells you, then.'

The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's notexpressing any greater curiosity on the subject;but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt veryanxious, he was too much confused by the ear-nest cunning of Fagin's looks, and his ownspeculations, to make any further inquiries just

then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jewremained very surly and silent till night: whenhe prepared to go abroad.

'You may burn a candle,' said the Jew, puttingone upon the table. 'And here's a book for youto read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!'

'Good-night!' replied Oliver, softly.

The Jew walked to the door: looking over hisshoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly stop-ping, he called him by his name.

Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the can-dle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, ashe placed the candlestick upon the table, sawthat the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, withlowering and contracted brows, from the darkend of the room.

'Take heed, Oliver! take heed!' said the oldman, shaking his right hand before him in awarning manner. 'He's a rough man, and thinksnothing of blood when his own is up. Whateverfalls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you.Mind!' Placing a strong emphasis on the lastword, he suffered his features gradually to re-solve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nod-ding his head, left the room.

Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when theold man disappeared, and pondered, with atrembling heart, on the words he had justheard. The more he thought of the Jew's admo-nition, the more he was at a loss to divine itsreal purpose and meaning.

He could think of no bad object to be attainedby sending him to Sikes, which would not beequally well answered by his remaining withFagin; and after meditating for a long time,concluded that he had been selected to performsome ordinary menial offices for the house-

breaker, until another boy, better suited for hispurpose could be engaged. He was too wellaccustomed to suffering, and had suffered toomuch where he was, to bewail the prospect ofchange very severely. He remained lost inthought for some minutes; and then, with aheavy sigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking upthe book which the Jew had left with him, be-gan to read.

He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first;but, lighting on a passage which attracted hisattention, he soon became intent upon the vol-ume. It was a history of the lives and trials ofgreat criminals; and the pages were soiled andthumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadfulcrimes that made the blood run cold; of secretmurders that had been committed by the lonelywayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of manin deep pits and wells: which would not keepthem down, deep as they were, but had yieldedthem up at last, after many years, and so mad-

dened the murderers with the sight, that intheir horror they had confessed their guilt, andyelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here,too, he read of men who, lying in their beds atdead of night, had been tempted (so they said)and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to suchdreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep,and the limbs quail, to think of. The terribledescriptions were so real and vivid, that thesallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; andthe words upon them, to be sounded in hisears, as if they were whispered, in hollowmurmurs, by the spirits of the dead.

In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book,and thrust it from him. Then, falling upon hisknees, he prayed Heaven to spare him fromsuch deeds; and rather to will that he shoulddie at once, than be reserved for crimes, so fear-ful and appalling. By degrees, he grew morecalm, and besought, in a low and broken voice,that he might be rescued from his present dan-

gers; and that if any aid were to be raised upfor a poor outcast boy who had never knownthe love of friends or kindred, it might come tohim now, when, desolate and deserted, hestood alone in the midst of wickedness andguilt.

He had concluded his prayer, but still remainedwith his head buried in his hands, when a rus-tling noise aroused him.

'What's that!' he cried, starting up, and catchingsight of a figure standing by the door. 'Who'sthere?'

'Me. Only me,' replied a tremulous voice.

Oliver raised the candle above his head: andlooked towards the door. It was Nancy.

'Put down the light,' said the girl, turning awayher head. 'It hurts my eyes.'

Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gentlyinquired if she were ill. The girl threw herselfinto a chair, with her back towards him: andwrung her hands; but made no reply.

'God forgive me!' she cried after a while, 'Inever thought of this.'

'Has anything happened?' asked Oliver. 'Can Ihelp you? I will if I can. I will, indeed.'

She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat;and, uttering a gurgling sound, gasped forbreath.

'Nancy!' cried Oliver, 'What is it?'

The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and herfeet upon the ground; and, suddenly stopping,drew her shawl close round her: and shiveredwith cold.

Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair closeto it, she sat there, for a little time, without

speaking; but at length she raised her head, andlooked round.

'I don't know what comes over me sometimes,'said she, affecting to busy herself in arrangingher dress; 'it's this damp dirty room, I think.Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?'

'Am I to go with you?' asked Oliver.

'Yes. I have come from Bill,' replied the girl.'You are to go with me.'

'What for?' asked Oliver, recoiling.

'What for?' echoed the girl, raising her eyes,and averting them again, the moment they en-countered the boy's face. 'Oh! For no harm.'

'I don't believe it,' said Oliver: who hadwatched her closely.

'Have it your own way,' rejoined the girl, affect-ing to laugh. 'For no good, then.'

Oliver could see that he had some power overthe girl's better feelings, and, for an instant,thought of appealing to her compassion for hishelpless state. But, then, the thought dartedacross his mind that it was barely eleveno'clock; and that many people were still in thestreets: of whom surely some might be found togive credence to his tale. As the reflection oc-cured to him, he stepped forward: and said,somewhat hastily, that he was ready.

Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport,was lost on his companion. She eyed him nar-rowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him alook of intelligence which sufficiently showedthat she guessed what had been passing in histhoughts.

'Hush!' said the girl, stooping over him, andpointing to the door as she looked cautiouslyround. 'You can't help yourself. I have triedhard for you, but all to no purpose. You are

hedged round and round. If ever you are to getloose from here, this is not the time.'

Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliverlooked up in her face with great surprise. Sheseemed to speak the truth; her countenancewas white and agitated; and she trembled withvery earnestness.

'I have saved you from being ill-used once, andI will again, and I do now,' continued the girlaloud; 'for those who would have fetched you,if I had not, would have been far more roughthan me. I have promised for your being quietand silent; if you are not, you will only do harmto yourself and me too, and perhaps be mydeath. See here! I have borne all this for youalready, as true as God sees me show it.'

She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises onher neck and arms; and continued, with greatrapidity:

'Remember this! And don't let me suffer morefor you, just now. If I could help you, I would;but I have not the power. They don't mean toharm you; whatever they make you do, is nofault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is ablow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste!Your hand!'

She caught the hand which Oliver instinctivelyplaced in hers, and, blowing out the light, drewhim after her up the stairs. The door wasopened, quickly, by some one shrouded in thedarkness, and was as quickly closed, when theyhad passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was inwaiting; with the same vehemence which shehad exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girlpulled him in with her, and drew the curtainsclose. The driver wanted no directions, butlashed his horse into full speed, without thedelay of an instant.

The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, andcontinued to pour into his ear, the warnings

and assurances she had already imparted. Allwas so quick and hurried, that he had scarcelytime to recollect where he was, or how he camethere, when the carriage stopped at the houseto which the Jew's steps had been directed onthe previous evening.

For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurriedglance along the empty street, and a cry forhelp hung upon his lips. But the girl's voicewas in his ear, beseeching him in such tones ofagony to remember her, that he had not theheart to utter it. While he hesitated, the oppor-tunity was gone; he was already in the house,and the door was shut.

'This way,' said the girl, releasing her hold forthe first time. 'Bill!'

'Hallo!' replied Sikes: appearing at the head ofthe stairs, with a candle. 'Oh! That's the time ofday. Come on!'

This was a very strong expression of approba-tion, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from aperson of Mr. Sikes' temperament. Nancy, ap-pearing much gratified thereby, saluted himcordially.

'Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom,' observedSikes, as he lighted them up. 'He'd have been inthe way.'

'That's right,' rejoined Nancy.

'So you've got the kid,' said Sikes when theyhad all reached the room: closing the door as hespoke.

'Yes, here he is,' replied Nancy.

'Did he come quiet?' inquired Sikes.

'Like a lamb,' rejoined Nancy.

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Sikes, looking grimlyat Oliver; 'for the sake of his young carcase: as

would otherways have suffered for it. Comehere, young 'un; and let me read you a lectur',which is as well got over at once.'

Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikespulled off Oliver's cap and threw it into a cor-ner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sathimself down by the table, and stood the boy infront of him.

'Now, first: do you know wot this is?' inquiredSikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay onthe table.

Oliver replied in the affirmative.

'Well, then, look here,' continued Sikes. 'This ispowder; that 'ere's a bullet; and this is a little bitof a old hat for waddin'.'

Oliver murmured his comprehension of thedifferent bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes pro-

ceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety anddeliberation.

'Now it's loaded,' said Mr. Sikes, when he hadfinished.

'Yes, I see it is, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Well,' said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist,and putting the barrel so close to his templethat they touched; at which moment the boycould not repress a start; 'if you speak a wordwhen you're out o'doors with me, except whenI speak to you, that loading will be in yourhead without notice. So, if you do make up yourmind to speak without leave, say your prayersfirst.'

Having bestowed a scowl upon the object ofthis warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikescontinued.

'As near as I know, there isn't anybody aswould be asking very partickler arter you, ifyou was disposed of; so I needn't take thisdevil-and-all of trouble to explain matters toyou, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hearme?'

'The short and the long of what you mean,' saidNancy: speaking very emphatically, andslightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak hisserious attention to her words: 'is, that if you'recrossed by him in this job you have on hand,you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards,by shooting him through the head, and willtake your chance of swinging for it, as you dofor a great many other things in the way ofbusiness, every month of your life.'

'That's it!' observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly;'women can always put things in fewestwords.—Except when it's blowing up; and thenthey lengthens it out. And now that he's thor-

oughly up to it, let's have some supper, and geta snooze before starting.'

In pursuance of this request, Nancy quicklylaid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes,she presently returned with a pot of porter anda dish of sheep's heads: which gave occasion toseveral pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr.Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidenceof 'jemmies' being a can name, common tothem, and also to an ingenious implementmuch used in his profession. Indeed, the wor-thy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the im-mediate prospect of being on active service,was in great spirits and good humour; in proofwhereof, it may be here remarked, that he hu-mourously drank all the beer at a draught, anddid not utter, on a rough calculation, more thanfour-score oaths during the whole progress ofthe meal.

Supper being ended—it may be easily con-ceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it—

Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses ofspirits and water, and threw himself on thebed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecationsin case of failure, to call him at five precisely.Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, bycommand of the same authority, on a mattressupon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire,sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at theappointed time.

For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking itnot impossible that Nancy might seek that op-portunity of whispering some further advice;but the girl sat brooding over the fire, withoutmoving, save now and then to trim the light.Weary with watching and anxiety, he at lengthfell asleep.

When he awoke, the table was covered withtea-things, and Sikes was thrusting variousarticles into the pockets of his great-coat, whichhung over the back of a chair. Nancy was bus-ily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not

yet daylight; for the candle was still burning,and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too,was beating against the window-panes; and thesky looked black and cloudy.

'Now, then!' growled Sikes, as Oliver startedup; 'half-past five! Look sharp, or you'll get nobreakfast; for it's late as it is.'

Oliver was not long in making his toilet; havingtaken some breakfast, he replied to a surly in-quiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quiteready.

Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him ahandkerchief to tie round his throat; Sikes gavehim a large rough cape to button over hisshoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to therobber, who, merely pausing to show him witha menacing gesture that he had that same pistolin a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped itfirmly in his, and, exchanging a farewell withNancy, led him away.

Oliver turned, for an instant, when theyreached the door, in the hope of meeting a lookfrom the girl. But she had resumed her old seatin front of the fire, and sat, perfectly motionlessbefore it.

CHAPTER XXI

THE EXPEDITION

It was a cheerless morning when they got intothe street; blowing and raining hard; and theclouds looking dull and stormy. The night hadbeen very wet: large pools of water had col-lected in the road: and the kennels were over-flowing. There was a faint glimmering of thecoming day in the sky; but it rather aggravatedthan relieved the gloom of the scene: the som-bre light only serving to pale that which thestreet lamps afforded, without shedding any

warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There appeared to benobody stirring in that quarter of the town; thewindows of the houses were all closely shut;and the streets through which they passed,were noiseless and empty.

By the time they had turned into the BethnalGreen Road, the day had fairly begun to break.Many of the lamps were already extinguished;a few country waggons were slowly toiling on,towards London; now and then, a stage-coach,covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driverbestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lashupon the heavy waggoner who, by keeping onthe wrong side of the road, had endangered hisarriving at the office, a quarter of a minute afterhis time. The public-houses, with gas-lightsburning inside, were already open. By degrees,other shops began to be unclosed, and a fewscattered people were met with. Then, camestraggling groups of labourers going to their

work; then, men and women with fish-basketson their heads; donkey-carts laden with vege-tables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock orwhole carcasses of meat; milk-women withpails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudg-ing out with various supplies to the easternsuburbs of the town. As they approached theCity, the noise and traffic gradually increased;when they threaded the streets betweenShoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into aroar of sound and bustle. It was as light as itwas likely to be, till night came on again, andthe busy morning of half the London popula-tion had begun.

Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street,and crossing Finsbury square, Mr. Sikes struck,by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thenceinto Long Lane, and so into Smithfield; fromwhich latter place arose a tumult of discordantsounds that filled Oliver Twist with amaze-ment.

It was market-morning. The ground was cov-ered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and mire; athick steam, perpetually rising from the reekingbodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog,which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops,hung heavily above. All the pens in the centreof the large area, and as many temporary pensas could be crowded into the vacant space,were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by thegutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen,three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers,drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, andvagabonds of every low grade, were mingledtogether in a mass; the whistling of drovers, thebarking dogs, the bellowing and plunging ofthe oxen, the bleating of sheep, the gruntingand squeaking of pigs, the cries of hawkers, theshouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; theringing of bells and roar of voices, that issuedfrom every public-house; the crowding, push-ing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; thehideous and discordant dim that resounded

from every corner of the market; and the un-washed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figuresconstantly running to and fro, and bursting inand out of the throng; rendered it a stunningand bewildering scene, which quite con-founded the senses.

Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowedhis way through the thickest of the crowd, andbestowed very little attention on the numeroussights and sounds, which so astonished theboy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passingfriend; and, resisting as many invitations totake a morning dram, pressed steadily onward,until they were clear of the turmoil, and hadmade their way through Hosier Lane into Hol-born.

'Now, young 'un!' said Sikes, looking up at theclock of St. Andrew's Church, 'hard uponseven! you must step out. Come, don't lag be-hind already, Lazy-legs!'

Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerkat his little companion's wrist; Oliver, quicken-ing his pace into a kind of trot between a fastwalk and a run, kept up with the rapid stridesof the house-breaker as well as he could.

They held their course at this rate, until theyhad passed Hyde Park corner, and were ontheir way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxedhis pace, until an empty cart which was at somelittle distance behind, came up. Seeing 'Houn-slow' written on it, he asked the driver with asmuch civility as he could assume, if he wouldgive them a lift as far as Isleworth.

'Jump up,' said the man. 'Is that your boy?'

'Yes; he's my boy,' replied Sikes, looking hardat Oliver, and putting his hand abstractedlyinto the pocket where the pistol was.

'Your father walks rather too quick for you,don't he, my man?' inquired the driver: seeingthat Oliver was out of breath.

'Not a bit of it,' replied Sikes, interposing. 'He'sused to it.

Here, take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!'

Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into thecart; and the driver, pointing to a heap of sacks,told him to lie down there, and rest himself.

As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliverwondered, more and more, where his compan-ion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammer-smith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, wereall passed; and yet they went on as steadily as ifthey had only just begun their journey. Atlength, they came to a public-house called theCoach and Horses; a little way beyond which,another road appeared to run off. And here, thecart stopped.

Sikes dismounted with great precipitation,holding Oliver by the hand all the while; andlifting him down directly, bestowed a furiouslook upon him, and rapped the side-pocketwith his fist, in a significant manner.

'Good-bye, boy,' said the man.

'He's sulky,' replied Sikes, giving him a shake;'he's sulky. A young dog! Don't mind him.'

'Not I!' rejoined the other, getting into his cart.'It's a fine day, after all.' And he drove away.

Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then,telling Oliver he might look about him if hewanted, once again led him onward on hisjourney.

They turned round to the left, a short way pastthe public-house; and then, taking a right-handroad, walked on for a long time: passing manylarge gardens and gentlemen's houses on both

sides of the way, and stopping for nothing buta little beer, until they reached a town. Hereagainst the wall of a house, Oliver saw writtenup in pretty large letters, 'Hampton.' They lin-gered about, in the fields, for some hours. Atlength they came back into the town; and, turn-ing into an old public-house with a defacedsign-board, ordered some dinner by the kitchenfire.

The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; witha great beam across the middle of the ceiling,and benches, with high backs to them, by thefire; on which were seated several rough menin smock-frocks, drinking and smoking. Theytook no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes;and, as Sikes took very little notice of them, heand his young comrade sat in a corner bythemselves, without being much troubled bytheir company.

They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat solong after it, while Mr. Sikes indulged himself

with three or four pipes, that Oliver began tofeel quite certain they were not going any fur-ther. Being much tired with the walk, and get-ting up so early, he dozed a little at first; then,quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes ofthe tobacco, fell asleep.

It was quite dark when he was awakened by apush from Sikes. Rousing himself sufficiently tosit up and look about him, he found that wor-thy in close fellowship and communicationwith a labouring man, over a pint of ale.

'So, you're going on to Lower Halliford, areyou?' inquired Sikes.

'Yes, I am,' replied the man, who seemed a littlethe worse—or better, as the case might be—fordrinking; 'and not slow about it neither. Myhorse hasn't got a load behind him going back,as he had coming up in the mornin'; and hewon't be long a-doing of it. Here's luck to him.Ecod! he's a good 'un!'

'Could you give my boy and me a lift as far asthere?' demanded Sikes, pushing the ale to-wards his new friend.

'If you're going directly, I can,' replied the man,looking out of the pot. 'Are you going to Halli-ford?'

'Going on to Shepperton,' replied Sikes.

'I'm your man, as far as I go,' replied the other.'Is all paid, Becky?'

'Yes, the other gentleman's paid,' replied thegirl.

'I say!' said the man, with tipsy gravity; 'thatwon't do, you know.'

'Why not?' rejoined Sikes. 'You're a-going toaccommodate us, and wot's to prevent mystanding treat for a pint or so, in return?'

The stranger reflected upon this argument,with a very profound face; having done so, heseized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was areal good fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, hewas joking; as, if he had been sober, therewould have been strong reason to suppose hewas.

After the exchange of a few more compliments,they bade the company good-night, and wentout; the girl gathering up the pots and glassesas they did so, and lounging out to the door,with her hands full, to see the party start.

The horse, whose health had been drunk in hisabsence, was standing outside: ready harnessedto the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without anyfurther ceremony; and the man to whom hebelonged, having lingered for a minute or two'to bear him up,' and to defy the hostler and theworld to produce his equal, mounted also.Then, the hostler was told to give the horse hishead; and, his head being given him, he made a

very unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the airwith great disdain, and running into the par-lour windows over the way; after performingthose feats, and supporting himself for a shorttime on his hind-legs, he started off at greatspeed, and rattled out of the town right gal-lantly.

The night was very dark. A damp mist rosefrom the river, and the marshy ground about;and spread itself over the dreary fields. It waspiercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black.Not a word was spoken; for the driver hadgrown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood tolead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddledtogether, in a corner of the cart; bewilderedwith alarm and apprehension; and figuringstrange objects in the gaunt trees, whosebranches waved grimly to and fro, as if in somefantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.

As they passed Sunbury Church, the clockstruck seven. There was a light in the ferry-

house window opposite: which streamedacross the road, and threw into more sombreshadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it.There was a dull sound of falling water not faroff; and the leaves of the old tree stirred gentlyin the night wind. It seemed like quiet musicfor the repose of the dead.

Sunbury was passed through, and they cameagain into the lonely road. Two or three milesmore, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, tookOliver by the hand, and they once againwalked on.

They turned into no house at Shepperton, asthe weary boy had expected; but still keptwalking on, in mud and darkness, throughgloomy lanes and over cold open wastes, untilthey came within sight of the lights of a town atno great distance. On looking intently forward,Oliver saw that the water was just below them,and that they were coming to the foot of abridge.

Sikes kept straight on, until they were closeupon the bridge; then turned suddenly down abank upon the left.

'The water!' thought Oliver, turning sick withfear. 'He has brought me to this lonely place tomurder me!'

He was about to throw himself on the ground,and make one struggle for his young life, whenhe saw that they stood before a solitary house:all ruinous and decayed. There was a windowon each side of the dilapidated entrance; andone story above; but no light was visible. Thehouse was dark, dismantled: and the all ap-pearance, uninhabited.

Sikes, with Oliver's hand still in his, softly ap-proached the low porch, and raised the latch.The door yielded to the pressure, and theypassed in together.

CHAPTER XXII

THE BURGLARY

'Hallo!' cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon asthey set foot in the passage.

'Don't make such a row,' said Sikes, bolting thedoor. 'Show a glim, Toby.'

'Aha! my pal!' cried the same voice. 'A glim,Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney;wake up first, if convenient.'

The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, orsome such article, at the person he addressed,to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise ofa wooden body, falling violently, was heard;and then an indistinct muttering, as of a manbetween sleep and awake.

'Do you hear?' cried the same voice. 'There's BillSikes in the passage with nobody to do the civil

to him; and you sleeping there, as if you tooklaudanum with your meals, and nothingstronger. Are you any fresher now, or do youwant the iron candlestick to wake you thor-oughly?'

A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, acrossthe bare floor of the room, as this interrogatorywas put; and there issued, from a door on theright hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, theform of the same individual who has been here-tofore described as labouring under the infir-mity of speaking through his nose, and officiat-ing as waiter at the public-house on SaffronHill.

'Bister Sikes!' exclaimed Barney, with real orcounterfeit joy; 'cub id, sir; cub id.'

'Here! you get on first,' said Sikes, puttingOliver in front of him. 'Quicker! or I shall treadupon your heels.'

Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikespushed Oliver before him; and they entered alow dark room with a smoky fire, two or threebroken chairs, a table, and a very old couch: onwhich, with his legs much higher than his head,a man was reposing at full length, smoking along clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cutsnuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons;an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr.Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quan-tity of hair, either upon his head or face; butwhat he had, was of a reddish dye, and tor-tured into long corkscrew curls, through whichhe occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers,ornamented with large common rings. He wasa trifle above the middle size, and apparentlyrather weak in the legs; but this circumstanceby no means detracted from his own admira-tion of his top-boots, which he contemplated, intheir elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.

'Bill, my boy!' said this figure, turning his headtowards the door, 'I'm glad to see you. I wasalmost afraid you'd given it up: in which case Ishould have made a personal wentur. Hallo!'

Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great sur-prise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. TobyCrackit brought himself into a sitting posture,and demanded who that was.

'The boy. Only the boy!' replied Sikes, drawinga chair towards the fire.

'Wud of Bister Fagid's lads,' exclaimed Barney,with a grin.

'Fagin's, eh!' exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver.'Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for the oldladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin'to him.'

'There—there's enough of that,' interposedSikes, impatiently; and stooping over his re-

cumbant friend, he whispered a few words inhis ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed im-mensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stareof astonishment.

'Now,' said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, 'ifyou'll give us something to eat and drink whilewe're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or inme, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker,and rest yourself; for you'll have to go out withus again to-night, though not very far off.'

Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid won-der; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with hisaching head upon his hands, scarecely knowingwhere he was, or what was passing aroundhim.

'Here,' said Toby, as the young Jew placedsome fragments of food, and a bottle upon thetable, 'Success to the crack!' He rose to honourthe toast; and, carefully depositing his emptypipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a

glass with spirits, and drank off its contents.Mr. Sikes did the same.

'A drain for the boy,' said Toby, half-filling awine-glass. 'Down with it, innocence.'

'Indeed,' said Oliver, looking piteously up intothe man's face; 'indeed, I—'

'Down with it!' echoed Toby. 'Do you think Idon't know what's good for you? Tell him todrink it, Bill.'

'He had better!' said Sikes clapping his handupon his pocket. 'Burn my body, if he isn'tmore trouble than a whole family of Dodgers.Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!'

Frightened by the menacing gestures of the twomen, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents ofthe glass, and immediately fell into a violent fitof coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and

Barney, and even drew a smile from the surlyMr. Sikes.

This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appe-tite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crustof bread which they made him swallow), thetwo men laid themselves down on chairs for ashort nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire;Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himselfon the floor: close outside the fender.

They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time;nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once ortwice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell intoa heavy doze: imagining himself straying alongthe gloomy lanes, or wandering about the darkchurchyard, or retracing some one or other ofthe scenes of the past day: when he was rousedby Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring itwas half-past one.

In an instant, the other two were on their legs,and all were actively engaged in busy prepara-

tion. Sikes and his companion enveloped theirnecks and chins in large dark shawls, and drewon their great-coats; Barney, opening a cup-board, brought forth several articles, which hehastily crammed into the pockets.

'Barkers for me, Barney,' said Toby Crackit.

'Here they are,' replied Barney, producing apair of pistols. 'You loaded them yourself.'

'All right!' replied Toby, stowing them away.'The persuaders?'

'I've got 'em,' replied Sikes.

'Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing for-gotten?' inquired Toby: fastening a small crow-bar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.

'All right,' rejoined his companion. 'Bring thembits of timber, Barney. That's the time of day.'

With these words, he took a thick stick fromBarney's hands, who, having delivered anotherto Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver'scape.

'Now then!' said Sikes, holding out his hand.

Oliver: who was completely stupified by theunwonted exercise, and the air, and the drinkwhich had been forced upon him: put his handmechanically into that which Sikes extendedfor the purpose.

'Take his other hand, Toby,' said Sikes. 'Lookout, Barney.'

The man went to the door, and returned to an-nounce that all was quiet. The two robbers is-sued forth with Oliver between them. Barney,having made all fast, rolled himself up as be-fore, and was soon asleep again.

It was now intensely dark. The fog was muchheavier than it had been in the early part of thenight; and the atmosphere was so damp, that,although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eye-brows, within a few minutes after leaving thehouse, had become stiff with the half-frozenmoisture that was floating about. They crossedthe bridge, and kept on towards the lightswhich he had seen before. They were at nogreat distance off; and, as they walked prettybriskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.

'Slap through the town,' whispered Sikes;'there'll be nobody in the way, to-night, to seeus.'

Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through themain street of the little town, which at that latehour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone atintervals from some bed-room window; andthe hoarse barking of dogs occasionally brokethe silence of the night. But there was nobody

abroad. They had cleared the town, as thechurch-bell struck two.

Quickening their pace, they turned up a roadupon the left hand. After walking about a quar-ter of a mile, they stopped before a detachedhouse surrounded by a wall: to the top ofwhich, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to takebreath, climbed in a twinkling.

'The boy next,' said Toby. 'Hoist him up; I'llcatch hold of him.'

Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes hadcaught him under the arms; and in three or fourseconds he and Toby were lying on the grasson the other side. Sikes followed directly. Andthey stole cautiously towards the house.

And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nighmad with grief and terror, saw that house-breaking and robbery, if not murder, were theobjects of the expedition. He clasped his hands

together, and involuntarily uttered a subduedexclamation of horror. A mist came before hiseyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face;his limbs failed him; and he sank upon hisknees.

'Get up!' murmured Sikes, trembling with rage,and drawing the pistol from his pocket; 'Getup, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass.'

'Oh! for God's sake let me go!' cried Oliver; 'letme run away and die in the fields. I will nevercome near London; never, never! Oh! pray havemercy on me, and do not make me steal. Forthe love of all the bright Angels that rest inHeaven, have mercy upon me!'

The man to whom this appeal was made, sworea dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol,when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placedhis hand upon the boy's mouth, and draggedhim to the house.

'Hush!' cried the man; 'it won't answer here.Say another word, and I'll do your businessmyself with a crack on the head. That makes nonoise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel.Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's gameenough now, I'll engage. I've seen older handsof his age took the same way, for a minute ortwo, on a cold night.'

Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fa-gin's head for sending Oliver on such an er-rand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but withlittle noise. After some delay, and some assis-tance from Toby, the shutter to which he hadreferred, swung open on its hinges.

It was a little lattice window, about five feetand a half above the ground, at the back of thehouse: which belonged to a scullery, or smallbrewing-place, at the end of the passage. Theaperture was so small, that the inmates hadprobably not thought it worth while to defendit more securely; but it was large enough to

admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. Avery brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed toovercome the fastening of the lattice; and itsoon stood wide open also.

'Now listen, you young limb,' whispered Sikes,drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, andthrowing the glare full on Oliver's face; 'I'm agoing to put you through there. Take this light;go softly up the steps straight afore you, andalong the little hall, to the street door; unfastenit, and let us in.'

'There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able toreach,' interposed Toby. 'Stand upon one of thehall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with ajolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on'em: which is the old lady's arms.'

'Keep quiet, can't you?' replied Sikes, with athreatening look. 'The room-door is open, is it?'

'Wide,' replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfyhimself. 'The game of that is, that they alwaysleave it open with a catch, so that the dog,who's got a bed in here, may walk up anddown the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha!ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!'

Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audi-ble whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikesimperiously commanded him to be silent, andto get to work. Toby complied, by first produc-ing his lantern, and placing it on the ground;then by planting himself firmly with his headagainst the wall beneath the window, and hishands upon his knees, so as to make a step ofhis back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes,mounting upon him, put Oliver gently throughthe window with his feet first; and, withoutleaving hold of his collar, planted him safely onthe floor inside.

'Take this lantern,' said Sikes, looking into theroom. 'You see the stairs afore you?'

Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, 'Yes.'Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pis-tol-barrel, briefly advised him to take noticethat he was within shot all the way; and that ifhe faltered, he would fall dead that instant.

'It's done in a minute,' said Sikes, in the samelow whisper. 'Directly I leave go of you, doyour work. Hark!'

'What's that?' whispered the other man.

They listened intently.

'Nothing,' said Sikes, releasing his hold ofOliver. 'Now!'

In the short time he had had to collect hissenses, the boy had firmly resolved that,whether he died in the attempt or not, hewould make one effort to dart upstairs from thehall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea,he advanced at once, but stealthily.

'Come back!' suddenly cried Sikes aloud. 'Back!back!'

Scared by the sudden breaking of the deadstillness of the place, and by a loud cry whichfollowed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knewnot whether to advance or fly.

The cry was repeated—a light appeared—avision of two terrified half-dressed men at thetop of the stairs swam before his eyes—aflash—a loud noise—a smoke—a crash some-where, but where he knew not,—and he stag-gered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but hewas up again, and had him by the collar beforethe smoke had cleared away. He fired his ownpistol after the men, who were already retreat-ing; and dragged the boy up.

'Clasp your arm tighter,' said Sikes, as he drewhim through the window. 'Give me a shawl

here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boybleeds!'

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingledwith the noise of fire-arms, and the shouts ofmen, and the sensation of being carried overuneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, thenoises grew confused in the distance; and acold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart;and he saw or heard no more.

CHAPTER XXIII

WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCEOF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BE-TWEENMR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWSTHAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BESUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS

The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on theground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so thatonly the heaps that had drifted into bywaysand corners were affected by the sharp windthat howled abroad: which, as if expendingincreased fury on such prey as it found, caughtit savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into athousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak,dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for thewell-housed and fed to draw round the brightfire and thank God they were at home; and forthe homeless, starving wretch to lay him downand die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their

eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, lettheir crimes have been what they may, canhardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs,when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the work-house to which our readers have been alreadyintroduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, satherself down before a cheerful fire in her ownlittle room, and glanced, with no small degreeof complacency, at a small round table: onwhich stood a tray of corresponding size, fur-nished with all necessary materials for the mostgrateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs.Corney was about to solace herself with a cupof tea. As she glanced from the table to the fire-place, where the smallest of all possible kettleswas singing a small song in a small voice, herinward satisfaction evidently increased,—somuch so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

'Well!' said the matron, leaning her elbow onthe table, and looking reflectively at the fire;

'I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to begrateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it.Ah!'

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as ifdeploring the mental blindness of those pau-pers who did not know it; and thrusting a silverspoon (private property) into the inmost re-cesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceededto make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimityof our frail minds! The black teapot, being verysmall and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.Corney was moralising; and the water slightlyscalded Mrs. Corney's hand.

'Drat the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting itdown very hastily on the hob; 'a little stupidthing, that only holds a couple of cups! Whatuse is it of, to anybody! Except,' said Mrs. Cor-ney, pausing, 'except to a poor desolate crea-ture like me. Oh dear!'

With these words, the matron dropped into herchair, and, once more resting her elbow on thetable, thought of her solitary fate. The smallteapot, and the single cup, had awakened inher mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (whohad not been dead more than five-and-twentyyears); and she was overpowered.

'I shall never get another!' said Mrs. Corney,pettishly; 'I shall never get another—like him.'

Whether this remark bore reference to the hus-band, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might havebeen the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it asshe spoke; and took it up afterwards. She hadjust tasted her first cup, when she was dis-turbed by a soft tap at the room-door.

'Oh, come in with you!' said Mrs. Corney,sharply. 'Some of the old women dying, I sup-pose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don'tstand there, letting the cold air in, don't. What'samiss now, eh?'

'Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied a man'svoice.

'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, in a muchsweeter tone, 'is that Mr. Bumble?'

'At your service, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, whohad been stopping outside to rub his shoesclean, and to shake the snow off his coat; andwho now made his appearance, bearing thecocked hat in one hand and a bundle in theother. 'Shall I shut the door, ma'am?'

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest thereshould be any impropriety in holding an inter-view with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr.Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, andbeing very cold himself, shut it without per-mission.

'Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.

'Hard, indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle.'Anti-porochial weather this, ma'am. We havegiven away, Mrs. Corney, we have given awaya matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheeseand a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yetthem paupers are not contented.'

'Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bum-ble?' said the matron, sipping her tea.

'When, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr. Bumble.'Why here's one man that, in consideration ofhis wife and large family, has a quartern loafand a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is hegrateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a copperfarthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma'am,but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pockethandkerchief full, he says! Coals! What wouldhe do with coals? Toast his cheese with 'em andthen come back for more. That's the way withthese people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full ofcoals to-day, and they'll come back for another,the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.'

The matron expressed her entire concurrence inthis intelligible simile; and the beadle went on.

'I never,' said Mr. Bumble, 'see anything like thepitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, aman—you have been a married woman,ma'am, and I may mention it to you—a man,with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs.Corney looked at the floor), goes to our over-seer's door when he has got company comingto dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs.Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shockedthe company very much, our overseer sent himout a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oat-meal. "My heart!" says the ungrateful villain,"what's the use of this to me? You might as wellgive me a pair of iron spectacles!" "Very good,"says our overseer, taking 'em away again, "youwon't get anything else here." "Then I'll die inthe streets!" says the vagrant. "Oh no, youwon't," says our overseer.'

'Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Gran-nett, wasn't it?' interposed the matron. 'Well,Mr. Bumble?'

'Well, ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he wentaway; and he did die in the streets. There's aobstinate pauper for you!'

'It beats anything I could have believed,' ob-served the matron emphatically. 'But don't youthink out-of-door relief a very bad thing, anyway, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of ex-perience, and ought to know. Come.'

'Mrs. Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as mensmile who are conscious of superior informa-tion, 'out-of-door relief, properly managed:properly managed, ma'am: is the porochialsafeguard. The great principle of out-of-doorrelief is, to give the paupers exactly what theydon't want; and then they get tired of coming.'

'Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Corney. 'Well, that isa good one, too!'

'Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr.Bumble, 'that's the great principle; and that'sthe reason why, if you look at any cases that getinto them owdacious newspapers, you'll al-ways observe that sick families have been re-lieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now,Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, how-ever,' said the beadle, stopping to unpack hisbundle, 'these are official secrets, ma'am; not tobe spoken of; except, as I may say, among theporochial officers, such as ourselves. This is theport wine, ma'am, that the board ordered forthe infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine;only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as abell, and no sediment!'

Having held the first bottle up to the light, andshaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumbleplaced them both on top of a chest of drawers;folded the handkerchief in which they had been

wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; andtook up his hat, as if to go.

'You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,' saidthe matron.

'It blows, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, turningup his coat-collar, 'enough to cut one's ears off.'

The matron looked, from the little kettle, to thebeadle, who was moving towards the door; andas the beadle coughed, preparatory to biddingher good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back hiscollar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair;and drew another chair up to the table. As heslowly seated himself, he looked at the lady.She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr.Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucerfrom the closet. As she sat down, her eyes onceagain encountered those of the gallant beadle;she coloured, and applied herself to the task ofmaking his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.

'Sweet? Mr. Bumble?' inquired the matron, tak-ing up the sugar-basin.

'Very sweet, indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bum-ble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he saidthis; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr.Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over hisknees to prevent the crumbs from sullying thesplendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink;varying these amusements, occasionally, byfetching a deep sigh; which, however, had noinjurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the

contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his opera-tions in the tea and toast department.

'You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr. Bumble,glancing at one who, in the centre of her family,was basking before the fire; 'and kittens too, Ideclare!'

'I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can'tthink,' replied the matron. 'They're so happy, sofrolicsome, and so cheerful, that they are quitecompanions for me.'

'Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bum-ble, approvingly; 'so very domestic.'

'Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;'so fond of their home too, that it's quite apleasure, I'm sure.'

'Mrs. Corney, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly,and marking the time with his teaspoon, 'Imean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten,

that could live with you, ma'am, and not befond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am.'

'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

'It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr.Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with akind of amorous dignity which made him dou-bly impressive; 'I would drown it myself, withpleasure.'

'Then you're a cruel man,' said the matron vi-vaciously, as she held out her hand for the bea-dle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man be-sides.'

'Hard-hearted, ma'am?' said Mr. Bumble.'Hard?' Mr. Bumble resigned his cup withoutanother word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's littlefinger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave amighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very littlemorsel farther from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney andMr. Bumble had been sitting opposite eachother, with no great space between them, andfronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bum-ble, in receding from the fire, and still keepingat the table, increased the distance betweenhimself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding,some prudent readers will doubtless be dis-posed to admire, and to consider an act of greatheroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in somesort tempted by time, place, and opportunity,to give utterance to certain soft nothings, whichhowever well they may become the lips of thelight and thoughtless, do seem immeasurablybeneath the dignity of judges of the land, mem-bers of parliament, ministers of state, lord may-ors, and other great public functionaries, butmore particularly beneath the stateliness andgravity of a beadle: who (as is well known)should be the sternest and most inflexibleamong them all.

Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, how-ever (and no doubt they were of the best): itunfortunately happened, as has been twice be-fore remarked, that the table was a round one;consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair bylittle and little, soon began to diminish the dis-tance between himself and the matron; and,continuing to travel round the outer edge of thecircle, brought his chair, in time, close to that inwhich the matron was seated.

Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when theydid so, Mr. Bumble stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to theright, she would have been scorched by the fire;and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr.Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, andno doubt foreseeing these consequences at aglance) she remained where she was, andhanded Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble,stirring his tea, and looking up into the ma-tron's face; 'are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?'

'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, 'what a verycurious question from a single man. What canyou want to know for, Mr. Bumble?'

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; fin-ished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs offhis knees; wiped his lips; and deliberatelykissed the matron.

'Mr. Bumble!' cried that discreet lady in a whis-per; for the fright was so great, that she hadquite lost her voice, 'Mr. Bumble, I shallscream!' Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in aslow and dignified manner, put his arm roundthe matron's waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of scream-ing, of course she would have screamed at thisadditional boldness, but that the exertion was

rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking atthe door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr.Bumble darted, with much agility, to the winebottles, and began dusting them with greatviolence: while the matron sharply demandedwho was there.

It is worthy of remark, as a curious physicalinstance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise incounteracting the effects of extreme fear, thather voice had quite recovered all its officialasperity.

'If you please, mistress,' said a withered oldfemale pauper, hideously ugly: putting herhead in at the door, 'Old Sally is a-going fast.'

'Well, what's that to me?' angrily demanded thematron. 'I can't keep her alive, can I?'

'No, no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'no-body can; she's far beyond the reach of help.I've seen a many people die; little babes and

great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough. But she's troubled in hermind: and when the fits are not on her,—andthat's not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got something to tell, whichyou must hear. She'll never die quiet till youcome, mistress.'

At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corneymuttered a variety of invectives against oldwomen who couldn't even die without pur-posely annoying their betters; and, mufflingherself in a thick shawl which she hastilycaught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to staytill she came back, lest anything particularshould occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast,and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, shefollowed her from the room with a very illgrace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself,was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet,counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-

tongs, closely inspected a silver milk-pot toascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and,having satisfied his curiosity on these points,put on his cocked hat corner-wise, and dancedwith much gravity four distinct times round thetable.

Having gone through this very extraordinaryperformance, he took off the cocked hat again,and, spreading himself before the fire with hisback towards it, seemed to be mentally en-gaged in taking an exact inventory of the furni-ture.

CHAPTER XXIV

TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT.BUT IS A SHORT ONE,AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCEIN THIS HISTORY

It was no unfit messenger of death, who haddisturbed the quiet of the matron's room. Herbody was bent by age; her limbs trembled withpalsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer,resembled more the grotesque shaping of somewild pencil, than the work of Nature's hand.

Alas! How few of Nature's faces are left aloneto gladden us with their beauty! The cares, andsorrows, and hungerings, of the world, changethem as they change hearts; and it is only whenthose passions sleep, and have lost their holdfor ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, andleave Heaven's surface clear. It is a commonthing for the countenances of the dead, even in

that fixed and rigid state, to subside into thelong-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy,and settle into the very look of early life; socalm, so peaceful, do they grow again, thatthose who knew them in their happy child-hood, kneel by the coffin's side in awe, and seethe Angel even upon earth.

The old crone tottered along the passages, andup the stairs, muttering some indistinct an-swers to the chidings of her companion; beingat length compelled to pause for breath, shegave the light into her hand, and remained be-hind to follow as she might: while the morenimble superior made her way to the roomwhere the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret-room, with a dim lightburning at the farther end. There was anotherold woman watching by the bed; the parishapothecary's apprentice was standing by thefire, making a toothpick out of a quill.

'Cold night, Mrs. Corney,' said this young gen-tleman, as the matron entered.

'Very cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, inher most civil tones, and dropping a curtsey asshe spoke.

'You should get better coals out of your con-tractors,' said the apothecary's deputy, breakinga lump on the top of the fire with the rustypoker; 'these are not at all the sort of thing for acold night.'

'They're the board's choosing, sir,' returned thematron. 'The least they could do, would be tokeep us pretty warm: for our places are hardenough.'

The conversation was here interrupted by amoan from the sick woman.

'Oh!' said the young mag, turning his face to-wards the bed, as if he had previously quite

forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs.Corney.'

'It is, is it, sir?' asked the matron.

'If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be sur-prised,' said the apothecary's apprentice, intentupon the toothpick's point. 'It's a break-up ofthe system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?'

The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascer-tain; and nodded in the affirmative.

'Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if youdon't make a row,' said the young man. 'Put thelight on the floor. She won't see it there.'

The attendant did as she was told: shaking herhead meanwhile, to intimate that the womanwould not die so easily; having done so, sheresumed her seat by the side of the other nurse,who had by this time returned. The mistress,with an expression of impatience, wrapped

herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of thebed.

The apothecary's apprentice, having completedthe manufacture of the toothpick, planted him-self in front of the fire and made good use of itfor ten minutes or so: when apparently grow-ing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy ofher job, and took himself off on tiptoe.

When they had sat in silence for some time, thetwo old women rose from the bed, and crouch-ing over the fire, held out their withered handsto catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastlylight on their shrivelled faces, and made theirugliness appear terrible, as, in this position,they began to converse in a low voice.

'Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I wasgone?' inquired the messenger.

'Not a word,' replied the other. 'She pluckedand tore at her arms for a little time; but I held

her hands, and she soon dropped off. She has-n't much strength in her, so I easily kept herquiet. I ain't so weak for an old woman, al-though I am on parish allowance; no, no!'

'Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said shewas to have?' demanded the first.

'I tried to get it down,' rejoined the other. 'Buther teeth were tight set, and she clenched themug so hard that it was as much as I could doto get it back again. So I drank it; and it did megood!'

Looking cautiously round, to ascertain thatthey were not overheard, the two hags cowerednearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.

'I mind the time,' said the first speaker, 'whenshe would have done the same, and made rarefun of it afterwards.'

'Ay, that she would,' rejoined the other; 'shehad a merry heart. 'A many, many, beautifulcorpses she laid out, as nice and neat as wax-work. My old eyes have seen them—ay, andthose old hands touched them too; for I havehelped her, scores of times.'

Stretching forth her trembling fingers as shespoke, the old creature shook them exultinglybefore her face, and fumbling in her pocket,brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into theoutstretched palm of her companion, and a fewmore into her own. While they were thus em-ployed, the matron, who had been impatientlywatching until the dying woman shouldawaken from her stupor, joined them by thefire, and sharply asked how long she was towait?

'Not long, mistress,' replied the second woman,looking up into her face. 'We have none of us

long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'llbe here soon enough for us all.'

'Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!' said thematron sternly. 'You, Martha, tell me; has shebeen in this way before?'

'Often,' answered the first woman.

'But will never be again,' added the second one;'that is, she'll never wake again but once—andmind, mistress, that won't be for long!'

'Long or short,' said the matron, snappishly,'she won't find me here when she does wake;take care, both of you, how you worry meagain for nothing. It's no part of my duty to seeall the old women in the house die, and Iwon't—that's more. Mind that, you impudentold harridans. If you make a fool of me again,I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!'

She was bouncing away, when a cry from thetwo women, who had turned towards the bed,caused her to look round. The patient hadraised herself upright, and was stretching herarms towards them.

'Who's that?' she cried, in a hollow voice.

'Hush, hush!' said one of the women, stoopingover her. 'Lie down, lie down!'

'I'll never lie down again alive!' said thewoman, struggling. 'I will tell her! Come here!Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.'

She clutched the matron by the arm, and forc-ing her into a chair by the bedside, was aboutto speak, when looking round, she caught sightof the two old women bending forward in theattitude of eager listeners.

'Turn them away,' said the woman, drowsily;'make haste! make haste!'

The two old crones, chiming in together, beganpouring out many piteous lamentations thatthe poor dear was too far gone to know her bestfriends; and were uttering sundry protestationsthat they would never leave her, when the su-perior pushed them from the room, closed thedoor, and returned to the bedside. On beingexcluded, the old ladies changed their tone, andcried through the keyhole that old Sally wasdrunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since,in addition to a moderate dose of opium pre-scribed by the apothecary, she was labouringunder the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, inthe openness of their hearts, by the worthy oldladies themselves.

'Now listen to me,' said the dying womanaloud, as if making a great effort to revive onelatent spark of energy. 'In this very room—inthis very bed—I once nursed a pretty youngcreetur', that was brought into the house with

her feet cut and bruised with walking, and allsoiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to aboy, and died. Let me think—what was theyear again!'

'Never mind the year,' said the impatient audi-tor; 'what about her?'

'Ay,' murmured the sick woman, relapsing intoher former drowsy state, 'what about her?—what about—I know!' she cried, jumpingfiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes start-ing from her head—'I robbed her, so I did! Shewasn't cold—I tell you she wasn't cold, when Istole it!'

'Stole what, for God's sake?' cried the matron,with a gesture as if she would call for help.

'It!' replied the woman, laying her hand overthe other's mouth. 'The only thing she had. Shewanted clothes to keep her warm, and food toeat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her

bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, thatmight have saved her life!'

'Gold!' echoed the matron, bending eagerlyover the woman as she fell back. 'Go on, goon—yes—what of it? Who was the mother?When was it?'

'She charge me to keep it safe,' replied thewoman with a groan, 'and trusted me as theonly woman about her. I stole it in my heartwhen she first showed it me hanging round herneck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on mebesides! They would have treated him better, ifthey had known it all!'

'Known what?' asked the other. 'Speak!'

'The boy grew so like his mother,' said thewoman, rambling on, and not heeding thequestion, 'that I could never forget it when Isaw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so

young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there'smore to tell. I have not told you all, have I?'

'No, no,' replied the matron, inclining her headto catch the words, as they came more faintlyfrom the dying woman. 'Be quick, or it may betoo late!'

'The mother,' said the woman, making a moreviolent effort than before; 'the mother, whenthe pains of death first came upon her, whis-pered in my ear that if her baby was born alive,and thrived, the day might come when itwould not feel so much disgraced to hear itspoor young mother named. "And oh, kindHeaven!" she said, folding her thin hands to-gether, "whether it be boy or girl, raise up somefriends for it in this troubled world, and takepity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned toits mercy!"'

'The boy's name?' demanded the matron.

'They called him Oliver,' replied the woman,feebly. 'The gold I stole was—'

'Yes, yes—what?' cried the other.

She was bending eagerly over the woman tohear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, asshe once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into asitting posture; then, clutching the coverlidwith both hands, muttered some indistinctsounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on thebed.

'Stone dead!' said one of the old women, hurry-ing in as soon as the door was opened.

'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the ma-tron, walking carelessly away.

The two crones, to all appearance, too busilyoccupied in the preparations for their dreadful

duties to make any reply, were left alone, hov-ering about the body.

CHAPTER XXV

WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TOMR. FAGIN AND COMPANY

While these things were passing in the countryworkhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den—thesame from which Oliver had been removed bythe girl—brooding over a dull, smoky fire. Heheld a pair of bellows upon his knee, withwhich he had apparently been endeavouring torouse it into more cheerful action; but he hadfallen into deep thought; and with his armsfolded on them, and his chin resting on histhumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on therusty bars.

At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger,Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all in-tent upon a game of whist; the Artful takingdummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling.The countenance of the first-named gentleman,peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired greatadditional interest from his close observance ofthe game, and his attentive perusal of Mr.Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time,as occasion served, he bestowed a variety ofearnest glances: wisely regulating his own playby the result of his observations upon hisneighbour's cards. It being a cold night, theDodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often hiscustom within doors. He also sustained a claypipe between his teeth, which he only removedfor a brief space when he deemed it necessaryto apply for refreshment to a quart pot uponthe table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the com-pany.

Master Bates was also attentive to the play; butbeing of a more excitable nature than his ac-complished friend, it was observable that hemore frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jestsand irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecominga scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presum-ing upon their close attachment, more thanonce took occasion to reason gravely with hiscompanion upon these improprieties; all ofwhich remonstrances, Master Bates received inextremely good part; merely requesting hisfriend to be 'blowed,' or to insert his head in asack, or replying with some other neatly-turnedwitticism of a similar kind, the happy applica-tion of which, excited considerable admirationin the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkablethat the latter gentleman and his partner in-variably lost; and that the circumstance, so farfrom angering Master Bates, appeared to affordhim the highest amusement, inasmuch as helaughed most uproariously at the end of every

deal, and protested that he had never seen sucha jolly game in all his born days.

'That's two doubles and the rub,' said Mr.Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. 'I never seesuch a feller as you, Jack; you win everything.Even when we've good cards, Charley and Ican't make nothing of 'em.'

Either the master or the manner of this remark,which was made very ruefully, delighted Char-ley Bates so much, that his consequent shout oflaughter roused the Jew from his reverie, andinduced him to inquire what was the matter.

'Matter, Fagin!' cried Charley. 'I wish you hadwatched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't wona point; and I went partners with him againstthe Artfull and dumb.'

'Ay, ay!' said the Jew, with a grin, which suffi-ciently demonstrated that he was at no loss to

understand the reason. 'Try 'em again, Tom; try'em again.'

'No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin,' repliedMr. Chitling; 'I've had enough. That 'ereDodger has such a run of luck that there's nostanding again' him.'

'Ha! ha! my dear,' replied the Jew, 'you mustget up very early in the morning, to win againstthe Dodger.'

'Morning!' said Charley Bates; 'you must putyour boots on over-night, and have a telescopeat each eye, and a opera-glass between yourshoulders, if you want to come over him.'

Mr. Dawkins received these handsome com-pliments with much philosophy, and offered tocut any gentleman in company, for the firstpicture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobodyaccepting the challenge, and his pipe being bythis time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse

himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgateon the table with the piece of chalk which hadserved him in lieu of counters; whistling, mean-time, with peculiar shrillness.

'How precious dull you are, Tommy!' said theDodger, stopping short when there had been along silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling.'What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?'

'How should I know, my dear?' replied the Jew,looking round as he plied the bellows. 'Abouthis losses, maybe; or the little retirement in thecountry that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it,my dear?'

'Not a bit of it,' replied the Dodger, stoppingthe subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling wasabout to reply. 'What do you say, Charley?'

'I should say,' replied Master Bates, with a grin,'that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. Seehow he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a

merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love!Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!'

Thoroughly overpowered with the notion ofMr. Chitling being the victim of the tender pas-sion, Master Bates threw himself back in hischair with such violence, that he lost his bal-ance, and pitched over upon the floor; where(the accident abating nothing of his merriment)he lay at full length until his laugh was over,when he resumed his former position, and be-gan another laugh.

'Never mind him, my dear,' said the Jew, wink-ing at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates areproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows.'Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stickup to her.'

'What I mean to say, Fagin,' replied Mr.Chitling, very red in the face, 'is, that that isn'tanything to anybody here.'

'No more it is,' replied the Jew; 'Charley willtalk. Don't mind him, my dear; don't mind him.Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, andyou will make your fortune.'

'So I do do as she bids me,' replied Mr. Chitling;'I shouldn't have been milled, if it hadn't beenfor her advice. But it turned out a good job foryou; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six weeks ofit? It must come, some time or another, andwhy not in the winter time when you don'twant to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?'

'Ah, to be sure, my dear,' replied the Jew.

'You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you,'asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley andthe Jew, 'if Bet was all right?'

'I mean to say that I shouldn't,' replied Tom,angrily. 'There, now. Ah! Who'll say as much asthat, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?'

'Nobody, my dear,' replied the Jew; 'not a soul,Tom. I don't know one of 'em that would do itbesides you; not one of 'em, my dear.'

'I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her;mightn't I, Fagin?' angrily pursued the poorhalf-witted dupe. 'A word from me would havedone it; wouldn't it, Fagin?'

'To be sure it would, my dear,' replied the Jew.

'But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?' demandedTom, pouring question upon question withgreat volubility.

'No, no, to be sure,' replied the Jew; 'you weretoo stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, mydear!'

'Perhaps I was,' rejoined Tom, looking round;'and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fa-gin?'

The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was con-siderably roused, hastened to assure him thatnobody was laughing; and to prove the gravityof the company, appealed to Master Bates, theprincipal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley,in opening his mouth to reply that he wasnever more serious in his life, was unable toprevent the escape of such a violent roar, thatthe abused Mr. Chitling, without any prelimi-nary ceremonies, rushed across the room andaimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilfulin evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, andchose his time so well that it lighted on thechest of the merry old gentleman, and causedhim to stagger to the wall, where he stood pant-ing for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on inintense dismay.

'Hark!' cried the Dodger at this moment, 'Iheard the tinkler.' Catching up the light, hecrept softly upstairs.

The bell was rung again, with some impatience,while the party were in darkness. After a shortpause, the Dodger reappeared, and whisperedFagin mysteriously.

'What!' cried the Jew, 'alone?'

The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and,shading the flame of the candle with his hand,gave Charley Bates a private intimation, indumb show, that he had better not be funnyjust then. Having performed this friendly of-fice, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's face, andawaited his directions.

The old man bit his yellow fingers, and medi-tated for some seconds; his face working withagitation the while, as if he dreaded something,and feared to know the worst. At length heraised his head.

'Where is he?' he asked.

The Dodger pointed to the floor above, andmade a gesture, as if to leave the room.

'Yes,' said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry;'bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently,Tom! Scarce, scarce!'

This brief direction to Charley Bates, and hisrecent antagonist, was softly and immediatelyobeyed. There was no sound of their where-about, when the Dodger descended the stairs,bearing the light in his hand, and followed by aman in a coarse smock-frock; who, after castinga hurried glance round the room, pulled off alarge wrapper which had concealed the lowerportion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard,unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flashToby Crackit.

'How are you, Faguey?' said this worthy, nod-ding to the Jew. 'Pop that shawl away in mycastor, Dodger, so that I may know where tofind it when I cut; that's the time of day! You'll

be a fine young cracksman afore the old filenow.'

With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his middle, drew achair to the fire, and placed his feet upon thehob.

'See there, Faguey,' he said, pointing disconso-lately to his top boots; 'not a drop of Day andMartin since you know when; not a bubble ofblacking, by Jove! But don't look at me in thatway, man. All in good time. I can't talk aboutbusiness till I've eat and drank; so produce thesustainance, and let's have a quiet fill-out forthe first time these three days!'

The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place whateatables there were, upon the table; and, seat-ing himself opposite the housebreaker, waitedhis leisure.

To judge from appearances, Toby was by nomeans in a hurry to open the conversation. Atfirst, the Jew contented himself with patientlywatching his countenance, as if to gain from itsexpression some clue to the intelligence hebrought; but in vain.

He looked tired and worn, but there was thesame complacent repose upon his features thatthey always wore: and through dirt, and beard,and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, theself-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Thenthe Jew, in an agony of impatience, watchedevery morsel he put into his mouth; pacing upand down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressi-ble excitement. It was all of no use. Toby con-tinued to eat with the utmost outward indiffer-ence, until he could eat no more; then, orderingthe Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed aglass of spirits and water, and composed him-self for talking.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said Toby.

'Yes, yes!' interposed the Jew, drawing up hischair.

Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spiritsand water, and to declare that the gin was ex-cellent; then placing his feet against the lowmantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to aboutthe level of his eye, he quietly resumed.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said the house-breaker, 'how's Bill?'

'What!' screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.

'Why, you don't mean to say—' began Toby,turning pale.

'Mean!' cried the Jew, stamping furiously on theground. 'Where are they? Sikes and the boy!Where are they? Where have they been? Whereare they hiding? Why have they not been here?'

'The crack failed,' said Toby faintly.

'I know it,' replied the Jew, tearing a newspaperfrom his pocket and pointing to it. 'What more?'

'They fired and hit the boy. We cut over thefields at the back, with him between us—straight as the crow flies—through hedge andditch. They gave chase. Damme! the wholecountry was awake, and the dogs upon us.'

'The boy!'

'Bill had him on his back, and scudded like thewind. We stopped to take him between us; hishead hung down, and he was cold. They wereclose upon our heels; every man for himself,and each from the gallows! We parted com-pany, and left the youngster lying in a ditch.Alive or dead, that's all I know about him.'

The Jew stopped to hear no more; but utteringa loud yell, and twining his hands in his hair,rushed from the room, and from the house.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARAC-TER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE;AND MANY THINGS, INSEPARABLEFROM THIS HISTORY,ARE DONE AND PERFORMED

The old man had gained the street corner, be-fore he began to recover the effect of TobyCrackit's intelligence. He had relaxed nothingof his unusual speed; but was still pressingonward, in the same wild and disordered man-ner, when the sudden dashing past of a car-riage: and a boisterous cry from the foot pas-sengers, who saw his danger: drove him backupon the pavement. Avoiding, as much as waspossible, all the main streets, and skulking onlythrough the by-ways and alleys, he at length

emerged on Snow Hill. Here he walked evenfaster than before; nor did he linger until hehad again turned into a court; when, as if con-scious that he was now in his proper element,he fell into his usual shuffling pace, andseemed to breathe more freely.

Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Hol-born Hill meet, opens, upon the right hand asyou come out of the City, a narrow and dismalalley, leading to Saffron Hill. In its filthy shopsare exposed for sale huge bunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and pat-terns; for here reside the traders who purchasethem from pick-pockets. Hundreds of thesehandkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs out-side the windows or flaunting from the door-posts; and the shelves, within, are piled withthem. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are,it has its barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop,and its fried-fish warehouse. It is a commercialcolony of itself: the emporium of petty larceny:

visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk,by silent merchants, who traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as theycome. Here, the clothesman, the shoe-vamper,and the rag-merchant, display their goods, assign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of oldiron and bones, and heaps of mildewy frag-ments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rotin the grimy cellars.

It was into this place that the Jew turned. Hewas well known to the sallow denizens of thelane; for such of them as were on the look-outto buy or sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passedalong. He replied to their salutations in thesame way; but bestowed no closer recognitionuntil he reached the further end of the alley;when he stopped, to address a salesman ofsmall stature, who had squeezed as much of hisperson into a child's chair as the chair wouldhold, and was smoking a pipe at his warehousedoor.

'Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would curethe hoptalmy!' said this respectable trader, inacknowledgment of the Jew's inquiry after hishealth.

'The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,'said Fagin, elevating his eyebrows, and cross-ing his hands upon his shoulders.

'Well, I've heerd that complaint of it, once ortwice before,' replied the trader; 'but it sooncools down again; don't you find it so?'

Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in thedirection of Saffron Hill, he inquired whetherany one was up yonder to-night.

'At the Cripples?' inquired the man.

The Jew nodded.

'Let me see,' pursued the merchant, reflecting.

'Yes, there's some half-dozen of 'em gone in,that I knows. I don't think your friend's there.'

'Sikes is not, I suppose?' inquired the Jew, witha disappointed countenance.

'Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,' replied thelittle man, shaking his head, and looking amaz-ingly sly. 'Have you got anything in my line to-night?'

'Nothing to-night,' said the Jew, turning away.

'Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?' criedthe little man, calling after him. 'Stop! I don'tmind if I have a drop there with you!'

But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand tointimate that he preferred being alone; and,moreover, as the little man could not very eas-ily disengage himself from the chair; the sign ofthe Cripples was, for a time, bereft of the ad-vantage of Mr. Lively's presence. By the time he

had got upon his legs, the Jew had disap-peared; so Mr. Lively, after ineffectually stand-ing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight ofhim, again forced himself into the little chair,and, exchanging a shake of the head with alady in the opposite shop, in which doubt andmistrust were plainly mingled, resumed hispipe with a grave demeanour.

The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples;which was the sign by which the establishmentwas familiarly known to its patrons: was thepublic-house in which Mr. Sikes and his doghave already figured. Merely making a sign toa man at the bar, Fagin walked straight up-stairs, and opening the door of a room, andsoftly insinuating himself into the chamber,looked anxiously about: shading his eyes withhis hand, as if in search of some particular per-son.

The room was illuminated by two gas-lights;the glare of which was prevented by the barred

shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of fadedred, from being visible outside. The ceiling wasblackened, to prevent its colour from beinginjured by the flaring of the lamps; and theplace was so full of dense tobacco smoke, thatat first it was scarcely possible to discern any-thing more. By degrees, however, as some of itcleared away through the open door, an as-semblage of heads, as confused as the noisesthat greeted the ear, might be made out; and asthe eye grew more accustomed to the scene, thespectator gradually became aware of the pres-ence of a numerous company, male and female,crowded round a long table: at the upper endof which, sat a chairman with a hammer of of-fice in his hand; while a professional gentlemanwith a bluish nose, and his face tied up for thebenefit of a toothache, presided at a jinglingpiano in a remote corner.

As Fagin stepped softly in, the professionalgentleman, running over the keys by way of

prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for asong; which having subsided, a young ladyproceeded to entertain the company with aballad in four verses, between each of whichthe accompanyist played the melody allthrough, as loud as he could. When this wasover, the chairman gave a sentiment, afterwhich, the professional gentleman on thechairman's right and left volunteered a duet,and sang it, with great applause.

It was curious to observe some faces whichstood out prominently from among the group.There was the chairman himself, (the landlordof the house,) a coarse, rough, heavy built fel-low, who, while the songs were proceeding,rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seemingto give himself up to joviality, had an eye foreverything that was done, and an ear for every-thing that was said—and sharp ones, too. Nearhim were the singers: receiving, with profes-sional indifference, the compliments of the

company, and applying themselves, in turn, toa dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water,tendered by their more boisterous admirers;whose countenances, expressive of almostevery vice in almost every grade, irresistiblyattracted the attention, by their very repulsive-ness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in allits stages, were there, in their strongest aspect;and women: some with the last lingering tingeof their early freshness almost fading as youlooked: others with every mark and stamp oftheir sex utterly beaten out, and presenting butone loathsome blank of profligacy and crime;some mere girls, others but young women, andnone past the prime of life; formed the darkestand saddest portion of this dreary picture.

Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, lookedeagerly from face to face while these proceed-ings were in progress; but apparently withoutmeeting that of which he was in search. Suc-ceeding, at length, in catching the eye of the

man who occupied the chair, he beckoned tohim slightly, and left the room, as quietly as hehad entered it.

'What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?' inquired theman, as he followed him out to the landing.'Won't you join us? They'll be delighted, everyone of 'em.'

The Jew shook his head impatiently, and saidin a whisper, 'Is he here?'

'No,' replied the man.

'And no news of Barney?' inquired Fagin.

'None,' replied the landlord of the Cripples; forit was he. 'He won't stir till it's all safe. Dependon it, they're on the scent down there; and thatif he moved, he'd blow upon the thing at once.He's all right enough, Barney is, else I shouldhave heard of him. I'll pound it, that Barney'smanaging properly. Let him alone for that.'

'Will he be here to-night?' asked the Jew, layingthe same emphasis on the pronoun as before.

'Monks, do you mean?' inquired the landlord,hesitating.

'Hush!' said the Jew. 'Yes.'

'Certain,' replied the man, drawing a goldwatch from his fob; 'I expected him here beforenow. If you'll wait ten minutes, he'll be—'

'No, no,' said the Jew, hastily; as though, how-ever desirous he might be to see the person inquestion, he was nevertheless relieved by hisabsence. 'Tell him I came here to see him; andthat he must come to me to-night. No, say to-morrow. As he is not here, to-morrow will betime enough.'

'Good!' said the man. 'Nothing more?'

'Not a word now,' said the Jew, descending thestairs.

'I say,' said the other, looking over the rails, andspeaking in a hoarse whisper; 'what a time thiswould be for a sell! I've got Phil Barker here: sodrunk, that a boy might take him!'

'Ah! But it's not Phil Barker's time,' said theJew, looking up.

'Phil has something more to do, before we canafford to part with him; so go back to the com-pany, my dear, and tell them to lead merrylives—while they last. Ha! ha! ha!'

The landlord reciprocated the old man's laugh;and returned to his guests. The Jew was nosooner alone, than his countenance resumed itsformer expression of anxiety and thought. Aftera brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, andbade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. Hedismissed him within some quarter of a mile ofMr. Sikes's residence, and performed the shortremainder of the distance, on foot.

'Now,' muttered the Jew, as he knocked at thedoor, 'if there is any deep play here, I shall haveit out of you, my girl, cunning as you are.'

She was in her room, the woman said. Fagincrept softly upstairs, and entered it without anyprevious ceremony. The girl was alone; lyingwith her head upon the table, and her hairstraggling over it.

'She has been drinking,' thought the Jew, cooly,'or perhaps she is only miserable.'

The old man turned to close the door, as hemade this reflection; the noise thus occasioned,roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face nar-rowly, as she inquired to his recital of TobyCrackit's story. When it was concluded, shesank into her former attitude, but spoke not aword. She pushed the candle impatiently away;and once or twice as she feverishly changed herposition, shuffled her feet upon the ground; butthis was all.

During the silence, the Jew looked restlesslyabout the room, as if to assure himself thatthere were no appearances of Sikes having cov-ertly returned. Apparently satisfied with hisinspection, he coughed twice or thrice, andmade as many efforts to open a conversation;but the girl heeded him no more than if he hadbeen made of stone. At length he made anotherattempt; and rubbing his hands together, said,in his most conciliatory tone,

'And where should you think Bill was now, mydear?'

The girl moaned out some half intelligible re-ply, that she could not tell; and seemed, fromthe smothered noise that escaped her, to becrying.

'And the boy, too,' said the Jew, straining hiseyes to catch a glimpse of her face. 'Poor leetlechild! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!'

'The child,' said the girl, suddenly looking up,'is better where he is, than among us; and if noharm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies deadin the ditch and that his young bones may rotthere.'

'What!' cried the Jew, in amazement.

'Ay, I do,' returned the girl, meeting his gaze. 'Ishall be glad to have him away from my eyes,and to know that the worst is over. I can't bearto have him about me. The sight of him turnsme against myself, and all of you.'

'Pooh!' said the Jew, scornfully. 'You're drunk.'

'Am I?' cried the girl bitterly. 'It's no fault ofyours, if I am not! You'd never have me any-thing else, if you had your will, except now;—the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?'

'No!' rejoined the Jew, furiously. 'It does not.'

'Change it, then!' responded the girl, with alaugh.

'Change it!' exclaimed the Jew, exasperatedbeyond all bounds by his companion's unex-pected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night,'I will change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listento me, who with six words, can strangle Sikesas surely as if I had his bull's throat betweenmy fingers now. If he comes back, and leavesthe boy behind him; if he gets off free, and deador alive, fails to restore him to me; murder himyourself if you would have him escape JackKetch. And do it the moment he sets foot in thisroom, or mind me, it will be too late!'

'What is all this?' cried the girl involuntarily.

'What is it?' pursued Fagin, mad with rage.'When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds tome, am I to lose what chance threw me in theway of getting safely, through the whims of adrunken gang that I could whistle away the

lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devilthat only wants the will, and has the power to,to—'

Panting for breath, the old man stammered fora word; and in that instant checked the torrentof his wrath, and changed his whole demean-our. A moment before, his clenched hands hadgrasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and hisface grown livid with passion; but now, heshrunk into a chair, and, cowering together,trembled with the apprehension of having him-self disclosed some hidden villainy. After ashort silence, he ventured to look round at hiscompanion. He appeared somewhat reassured,on beholding her in the same listless attitudefrom which he had first roused her.

'Nancy, dear!' croaked the Jew, in his usualvoice. 'Did you mind me, dear?'

'Don't worry me now, Fagin!' replied the girl,raising her head languidly. 'If Bill has not done

it this time, he will another. He has done manya good job for you, and will do many morewhen he can; and when he can't he won't; so nomore about that.'

'Regarding this boy, my dear?' said the Jew,rubbing the palms of his hands nervously to-gether.

'The boy must take his chance with the rest,'interrupted Nancy, hastily; 'and I say again, Ihope he is dead, and out of harm's way, andout of yours,—that is, if Bill comes to no harm.And if Toby got clear off, Bill's pretty sure to besafe; for Bill's worth two of Toby any time.'

'And about what I was saying, my dear?' ob-served the Jew, keeping his glistening eyesteadily upon her.

'Your must say it all over again, if it's anythingyou want me to do,' rejoined Nancy; 'and if it is,

you had better wait till to-morrow. You put meup for a minute; but now I'm stupid again.'

Fagin put several other questions: all with thesame drift of ascertaining whether the girl hadprofited by his unguarded hints; but, she an-swered them so readily, and was withal so ut-terly unmoved by his searching looks, that hisoriginal impression of her being more than atrifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed,was not exempt from a failing which was verycommon among the Jew's female pupils; and inwhich, in their tenderer years, they were ratherencouraged than checked. Her disordered ap-pearance, and a wholesale perfume of Genevawhich pervaded the apartment, afforded strongconfirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew'ssupposition; and when, after indulging in thetemporary display of violence above described,she subsided, first into dullness, and after-wards into a compound of feelings: under theinfluence of which she shed tears one minute,

and in the next gave utterance to various ex-clamations of 'Never say die!' and divers calcu-lations as to what might be the amount of theodds so long as a lady or gentleman washappy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerableexperience of such matters in his time, saw,with great satisfaction, that she was very fargone indeed.

Having eased his mind by this discovery; andhaving accomplished his twofold object of im-parting to the girl what he had, that night,heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes,that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin againturned his face homeward: leaving his youngfriend asleep, with her head upon the table.

It was within an hour of midnight. The weatherbeing dark, and piercing cold, he had no greattemptation to loiter. The sharp wind thatscoured the streets, seemed to have clearedthem of passengers, as of dust and mud, forfew people were abroad, and they were to all

appearance hastening fast home. It blew fromthe right quarter for the Jew, however, andstraight before it he went: trembling, and shiv-ering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely onhis way.

He had reached the corner of his own street,and was already fumbling in his pocket for thedoor-key, when a dark figure emerged from aprojecting entrance which lay in deep shadow,and, crossing the road, glided up to him unper-ceived.

'Fagin!' whispered a voice close to his ear.

'Ah!' said the Jew, turning quickly round, 'isthat—'

'Yes!' interrupted the stranger. 'I have been lin-gering here these two hours. Where the devilhave you been?'

'On your business, my dear,' replied the Jew,glancing uneasily at his companion, and slack-ening his pace as he spoke. 'On your businessall night.'

'Oh, of course!' said the stranger, with a sneer.'Well; and what's come of it?'

'Nothing good,' said the Jew.

'Nothing bad, I hope?' said the stranger, stop-ping short, and turning a startled look on hiscompanion.

The Jew shook his head, and was about to re-ply, when the stranger, interrupting him, mo-tioned to the house, before which they had bythis time arrived: remarking, that he had bettersay what he had got to say, under cover: for hisblood was chilled with standing about so long,and the wind blew through him.

Fagin looked as if he could have willingly ex-cused himself from taking home a visitor atthat unseasonable hour; and, indeed, mutteredsomething about having no fire; but his com-panion repeating his request in a peremptorymanner, he unlocked the door, and requestedhim to close it softly, while he got a light.

'It's as dark as the grave,' said the man, gropingforward a few steps. 'Make haste!'

'Shut the door,' whispered Fagin from the endof the passage. As he spoke, it closed with aloud noise.

'That wasn't my doing,' said the other man,feeling his way. 'The wind blew it to, or it shutof its own accord: one or the other. Look sharpwith the light, or I shall knock my brains outagainst something in this confounded hole.'

Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs.After a short absence, he returned with a

lighted candle, and the intelligence that TobyCrackit was asleep in the back room below, andthat the boys were in the front one. Beckoningthe man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.

'We can say the few words we've got to say inhere, my dear,' said the Jew, throwing open adoor on the first floor; 'and as there are holes inthe shutters, and we never show lights to ourneighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs.There!'

With those words, the Jew, stooping down,placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs,exactly opposite to the room door. This done,he led the way into the apartment; which wasdestitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without cover-ing, which stood behind the door. Upon thispiece of furniture, the stranger sat himself withthe air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawingup the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face.It was not quite dark; the door was partially

open; and the candle outside, threw a feeblereflection on the opposite wall.

They conversed for some time in whispers.Though nothing of the conversation was dis-tinguishable beyond a few disjointed wordshere and there, a listener might easily have per-ceived that Fagin appeared to be defendinghimself against some remarks of the stranger;and that the latter was in a state of considerableirritation. They might have been talking, thus,for a quarter of an hour or more, whenMonks—by which name the Jew had desig-nated the strange man several times in thecourse of their colloquy—said, raising his voicea little,

'I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why nothave kept him here among the rest, and made asneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?'

'Only hear him!' exclaimed the Jew, shrugginghis shoulders.

'Why, do you mean to say you couldn't havedone it, if you had chosen?' demanded Monks,sternly. 'Haven't you done it, with other boys,scores of times? If you had had patience for atwelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have gothim convicted, and sent safely out of the king-dom; perhaps for life?'

'Whose turn would that have served, my dear?'inquired the Jew humbly.

'Mine,' replied Monks.

'But not mine,' said the Jew, submissively. 'Hemight have become of use to me. When thereare two parties to a bargain, it is only reason-able that the interests of both should be con-sulted; is it, my good friend?'

'What then?' demanded Monks.

'I saw it was not easy to train him to the busi-ness,' replied the Jew; 'he was not like otherboys in the same circumstances.'

'Curse him, no!' muttered the man, 'or hewould have been a thief, long ago.'

'I had no hold upon him to make him worse,'pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the coun-tenance of his companion. 'His hand was not in.I had nothing to frighten him with; which wealways must have in the beginning, or we la-bour in vain. What could I do? Send him outwith the Dodger and Charley? We had enoughof that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all.'

'That was not my doing,' observed Monks.

'No, no, my dear!' renewed the Jew. 'And Idon't quarrel with it now; because, if it hadnever happened, you might never have clappedeyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to thediscovery that it was him you were looking for.

Well! I got him back for you by means of thegirl; and then she begins to favour him.'

'Throttle the girl!' said Monks, impatiently.

'Why, we can't afford to do that just now, mydear,' replied the Jew, smiling; 'and, besides,that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one ofthese days, I might be glad to have it done. Iknow what these girls are, Monks, well. Assoon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care nomore for him, than for a block of wood. Youwant him made a thief. If he is alive, I can makehim one from this time; and, if—if—' said theJew, drawing nearer to the other,—'it's notlikely, mind,—but if the worst comes to theworst, and he is dead—'

'It's no fault of mine if he is!' interposed theother man, with a look of terror, and claspingthe Jew's arm with trembling hands. 'Mind that.Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but hisdeath, I told you from the first. I won't shed

blood; it's always found out, and haunts a manbesides. If they shot him dead, I was not thecause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den!What's that?'

'What!' cried the Jew, grasping the cowardround the body, with both arms, as he sprungto his feet. 'Where?'

'Yonder! replied the man, glaring at the oppo-site wall. 'The shadow! I saw the shadow of awoman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along thewainscot like a breath!'

The Jew released his hold, and they rushedtumultuously from the room. The candle,wasted by the draught, was standing where ithad been placed. It showed them only theempty staircase, and their own white faces.They listened intently: a profound silencereigned throughout the house.

'It's your fancy,' said the Jew, taking up thelight and turning to his companion.

'I'll swear I saw it!' replied Monks, trembling. 'Itwas bending forward when I saw it first; andwhen I spoke, it darted away.'

The Jew glanced contemptuously at the paleface of his associate, and, telling him he couldfollow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. Theylooked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare,and empty. They descended into the passage,and thence into the cellars below. The greendamp hung upon the low walls; the tracks ofthe snail and slug glistened in the light of thecandle; but all was still as death.

'What do you think now?' said the Jew, whenthey had regained the passage. 'Besides our-selves, there's not a creature in the house exceptToby and the boys; and they're safe enough.See here!'

As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth twokeys from his pocket; and explained, that whenhe first went downstairs, he had locked themin, to prevent any intrusion on the conference.

This accumulated testimony effectually stag-gered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradu-ally become less and less vehement as they pro-ceeded in their search without making any dis-covery; and, now, he gave vent to several verygrim laughs, and confessed it could only havebeen his excited imagination. He declined anyrenewal of the conversation, however, for thatnight: suddenly remembering that it was pastone o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted.

CHAPTER XXVII

ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OFA FORMER CHAPTER;

WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UN-CEREMONIOUSLY

As it would be, by no means, seemly in a hum-ble author to keep so mighty a personage as abeadle waiting, with his back to the fire, andthe skirts of his coat gathered up under hisarms, until such time as it might suit his pleas-ure to relieve him; and as it would still less be-come his station, or his gallantry to involve inthe same neglect a lady on whom that beadlehad looked with an eye of tenderness and affec-tion, and in whose ear he had whispered sweetwords, which, coming from such a quarter,might well thrill the bosom of maid or matronof whatsoever degree; the historian whose pentraces these words—trusting that he knows hisplace, and that he entertains a becoming rever-ence for those upon earth to whom high andimportant authority is delegated—hastens topay them that respect which their position de-mands, and to treat them with all that duteous

ceremony which their exalted rank, and (byconsequence) great virtues, imperatively claimat his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he hadpurposed to introduce, in this place, a disserta-tion touching the divine right of beadles, andelucidative of the position, that a beadle can dono wrong: which could not fail to have beenboth pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunatelycompelled, by want of time and space, to post-pone to some more convenient and fitting op-portunity; on the arrival of which, he will beprepared to show, that a beadle properly con-stituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, at-tached to a parochial workhouse, and attendingin his official capacity the parochial church: is,in right and virtue of his office, possessed of allthe excellences and best qualities of humanity;and that to none of those excellences, can merecompanies' beadles, or court-of-law beadles, oreven chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and

they in a very lowly and inferior degree), laythe remotest sustainable claim.

Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspec-tion of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicetythe exact condition of the furniture, down tothe very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and hadrepeated each process full half a dozen times;before he began to think that it was time forMrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets think-ing; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney'sapproach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that itwould be an innocent and virtuous way ofspending the time, if he were further to allayhis curiousity by a cursory glance at the interiorof Mrs. Corney's chest of drawers.

Having listened at the keyhole, to assure him-self that nobody was approaching the chamber,Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, pro-ceeded to make himself acquainted with thecontents of the three long drawers: which, be-

ing filled with various garments of good fash-ion and texture, carefully preserved betweentwo layers of old newspapers, speckled withdried lavender: seemed to yield him exceedingsatisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at theright-hand corner drawer (in which was thekey), and beholding therein a small padlockedbox, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasantsound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumblereturned with a stately walk to the fireplace;and, resuming his old attitude, said, with agrave and determined air, 'I'll do it!' He fol-lowed up this remarkable declaration, by shak-ing his head in a waggish manner for ten min-utes, as though he were remonstrating withhimself for being such a pleasant dog; and then,he took a view of his legs in profile, with muchseeming pleasure and interest.

He was still placidly engaged in this latter sur-vey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into theroom, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a

chair by the fireside, and covering her eyeswith one hand, placed the other over her heart,and gasped for breath.

'Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble, stooping overthe matron, 'what is this, ma'am? Has anythinghappened, ma'am? Pray answer me: I'm on—on—' Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not im-mediately think of the word 'tenterhooks,' so hesaid 'broken bottles.'

'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' cried the lady, 'I have been sodreadfully put out!'

'Put out, ma'am!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble; 'whohas dared to—? I know!' said Mr. Bumble,checking himself, with native majesty, 'this isthem wicious paupers!'

'It's dreadful to think of!' said the lady, shud-dering.

'Then don't think of it, ma'am,' rejoined Mr.Bumble.

'I can't help it,' whimpered the lady.

'Then take something, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumblesoothingly. 'A little of the wine?'

'Not for the world!' replied Mrs. Corney. 'Icouldn't,—oh! The top shelf in the right-handcorner—oh!' Uttering these words, the goodlady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, andunderwent a convulsion from internal spasms.Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatchinga pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thusincoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with itscontents, and held it to the lady's lips.

'I'm better now,' said Mrs. Corney, falling back,after drinking half of it.

Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceil-ing in thankfulness; and, bringing them downagain to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.

'Peppermint,' exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faintvoice, smiling gently on the beadle as shespoke. 'Try it! There's a little—a little somethingelse in it.'

Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubt-ful look; smacked his lips; took another taste;and put the cup down empty.

'It's very comforting,' said Mrs. Corney.

'Very much so indeed, ma'am,' said the beadle.As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron,and tenderly inquired what had happened todistress her.

'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Corney. 'I am a foolish,excitable, weak creetur.'

'Not weak, ma'am,' retorted Mr. Bumble, draw-ing his chair a little closer. 'Are you a weakcreetur, Mrs. Corney?'

'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mrs. Corney,laying down a general principle.

'So we are,' said the beadle.

Nothing was said on either side, for a minute ortwo afterwards. By the expiration of that time,Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by re-moving his left arm from the back of Mrs. Cor-ney's chair, where it had previously rested, toMrs. Corney's apron-string, round which itgradually became entwined.

'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Corney sighed.

'Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble.

'I can't help it,' said Mrs. Corney. And shesighed again.

'This is a very comfortable room, ma'am,' saidMr. Bumble looking round. 'Another room, andthis, ma'am, would be a complete thing.'

'It would be too much for one,' murmured thelady.

'But not for two, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble,in soft accents. 'Eh, Mrs. Corney?'

Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the bea-dle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get aview of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, withgreat propriety, turned her head away, andreleased her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in thatof Mr. Bumble.

'The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs.Corney?' inquired the beadle, affectionatelypressing her hand.

'And candles,' replied Mrs. Corney, slightlyreturning the pressure.

'Coals, candles, and house-rent free,' said Mr.Bumble. 'Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel youare!'

The lady was not proof against this burst offeeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; andthat gentleman in his agitation, imprinted apassionate kiss upon her chaste nose.

'Such porochial perfection!' exclaimed Mr.Bumble, rapturously. 'You know that Mr. Sloutis worse to-night, my fascinator?'

'Yes,' replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.

'He can't live a week, the doctor says,' pursuedMr. Bumble. 'He is the master of this establish-

ment; his death will cause a wacancy; thatwacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney,what a prospect this opens! What a opportunityfor a jining of hearts and housekeepings!'

Mrs. Corney sobbed.

'The little word?' said Mr. Bumble, bendingover the bashful beauty. 'The one little, little,little word, my blessed Corney?'

'Ye—ye—yes!' sighed out the matron.

'One more,' pursued the beadle; 'compose yourdarling feelings for only one more. When is it tocome off?'

Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twicefailed. At length summoning up courage, shethrew her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, andsaid, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, andthat he was 'a irresistible duck.'

Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorilyarranged, the contract was solemnly ratified inanother teacupful of the peppermint mixture;which was rendered the more necessary, by theflutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. Whileit was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr.Bumble with the old woman's decease.

'Very good,' said that gentleman, sipping hispeppermint; 'I'll call at Sowerberry's as I gohome, and tell him to send to-morrow morning.Was it that as frightened you, love?'

'It wasn't anything particular, dear,' said thelady evasively.

'It must have been something, love,' urged Mr.Bumble. 'Won't you tell your own B.?'

'Not now,' rejoined the lady; 'one of these days.After we're married, dear.'

'After we're married!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble. 'Itwasn't any impudence from any of them malepaupers as—'

'No, no, love!' interposed the lady, hastily.

'If I thought it was,' continued Mr. Bumble; 'if Ithought as any one of 'em had dared to lift hiswulgar eyes to that lovely countenance—'

'They wouldn't have dared to do it, love,' re-sponded the lady.

'They had better not!' said Mr. Bumble, clench-ing his fist. 'Let me see any man, porochial orextra-porochial, as would presume to do it; andI can tell him that he wouldn't do it a secondtime!'

Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation,this might have seemed no very high compli-ment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumbleaccompanied the threat with many warlike

gestures, she was much touched with this proofof his devotion, and protested, with great ad-miration, that he was indeed a dove.

The dove then turned up his coat-collar, andput on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged along and affectionate embrace with his futurepartner, once again braved the cold wind of thenight: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in themale paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, withthe view of satisfying himself that he could fillthe office of workhouse-master with needfulacerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr.Bumble left the building with a light heart, andbright visions of his future promotion: whichserved to occupy his mind until he reached theshop of the undertaker.

Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having goneout to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole notbeing at any time disposed to take upon him-self a greater amount of physical exertion thanis necessary to a convenient performance of the

two functions of eating and drinking, the shopwas not closed, although it was past the usualhour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped withhis cane on the counter several times; but, at-tracting no attention, and beholding a lightshining through the glass-window of the littleparlour at the back of the shop, he made bold topeep in and see what was going forward; andwhen he saw what was going forward, he wasnot a little surprised.

The cloth was laid for supper; the table wascovered with bread and butter, plates andglasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At theupper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypolelolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legsthrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered breadin the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte,opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Clay-pole condescended to swallow, with remark-able avidity. A more than ordinary redness in

the region of the young gentleman's nose, and akind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted thathe was in a slight degree intoxicated; thesesymptoms were confirmed by the intense relishwith which he took his oysters, for which noth-ing but a strong appreciation of their coolingproperties, in cases of internal fever, could havesufficiently accounted.

'Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!' saidCharlotte; 'try him, do; only this one.'

'What a delicious thing is a oyster!' remarkedMr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. 'Whata pity it is, a number of 'em should ever makeyou feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?'

'It's quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte.

'So it is,' acquiesced Mr. Claypole. 'An't yerfond of oysters?'

'Not overmuch,' replied Charlotte. 'I like to seeyou eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'emmyself.'

'Lor!' said Noah, reflectively; 'how queer!'

'Have another,' said Charlotte. 'Here's one withsuch a beautiful, delicate beard!'

'I can't manage any more,' said Noah. 'I'm verysorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer.'

'What!' said Mr. Bumble, bursting into theroom. 'Say that again, sir.'

Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face inher apron. Mr. Claypole, without making anyfurther change in his position than suffering hislegs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle indrunken terror.

'Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!' saidMr. Bumble. 'How dare you mention such athing, sir? And how dare you encourage him,

you insolent minx? Kiss her!' exclaimed Mr.Bumble, in strong indignation. 'Faugh!'

'I didn't mean to do it!' said Noah, blubbering.'She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it,or not.'

'Oh, Noah,' cried Charlotte, reproachfully.

'Yer are; yer know yer are!' retorted Noah.'She's always a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; shechucks me under the chin, please, sir; andmakes all manner of love!'

'Silence!' cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. 'Take your-self downstairs, ma'am. Noah, you shut up theshop; say another word till your master comeshome, at your peril; and, when he does comehome, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was tosend a old woman's shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!'cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. 'Thesin and wickedness of the lower orders in this

porochial district is frightful! If Parliamentdon't take their abominable courses under con-sideration, this country's ruined, and the char-acter of the peasantry gone for ever!' With thesewords, the beadle strode, with a lofty andgloomy air, from the undertaker's premises.

And now that we have accompanied him so faron his road home, and have made all necessarypreparations for the old woman's funeral, let usset on foot a few inquires after young OliverTwist, and ascertain whether he be still lying inthe ditch where Toby Crackit left him.

CHAPTER XXVIII

LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PRO-CEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES

'Wolves tear your throats!' muttered Sikes,grinding his teeth. 'I wish I was among some ofyou; you'd howl the hoarser for it.'

As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, withthe most desperate ferocity that his desperatenature was capable of, he rested the body of thewounded boy across his bended knee; andturned his head, for an instant, to look back athis pursuers.

There was little to be made out, in the mist anddarkness; but the loud shouting of men vi-brated through the air, and the barking of theneighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of thealarm bell, resounded in every direction.

'Stop, you white-livered hound!' cried the rob-ber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, makingthe best use of his long legs, was already ahead.'Stop!'

The repetition of the word, brought Toby to adead stand-still. For he was not quite satisfiedthat he was beyond the range of pistol-shot;and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.

'Bear a hand with the boy,' cried Sikes, beckon-ing furiously to his confederate. 'Come back!'

Toby made a show of returning; but ventured,in a low voice, broken for want of breath, tointimate considerable reluctance as he cameslowly along.

'Quicker!' cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dryditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol from hispocket. 'Don't play booty with me.'

At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes,again looking round, could discern that themen who had given chase were already climb-ing the gate of the field in which he stood; andthat a couple of dogs were some paces in ad-vance of them.

'It's all up, Bill!' cried Toby; 'drop the kid, andshow 'em your heels.' With this parting advice,Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shotby his friend, to the certainty of being taken byhis enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off atfull speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took onelook around; threw over the prostrate form ofOliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedlymuffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as ifto distract the attention of those behind, fromthe spot where the boy lay; paused, for a sec-ond, before another hedge which met it at rightangles; and whirling his pistol high into the air,cleared it at a bound, and was gone.

'Ho, ho, there!' cried a tremulous voice in therear. 'Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!'

The dogs, who, in common with their masters,seemed to have no particular relish for thesport in which they were engaged, readily an-swered to the command. Three men, who hadby this time advanced some distance into thefield, stopped to take counsel together.

'My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my or-ders, is,' said the fattest man of the party, 'thatwe 'mediately go home again.'

'I am agreeable to anything which is agreeableto Mr. Giles,' said a shorter man; who was byno means of a slim figure, and who was verypale in the face, and very polite: as frightenedmen frequently are.

'I shouldn't wish to appear ill-mannered, gen-tlemen,' said the third, who had called the dogsback, 'Mr. Giles ought to know.'

'Certainly,' replied the shorter man; 'and what-ever Mr. Giles says, it isn't our place to contra-dict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thankmy stars, I know my sitiwation.' To tell thetruth, the little man did seem to know his situa-tion, and to know perfectly well that it was byno means a desirable one; for his teeth chat-tered in his head as he spoke.

'You are afraid, Brittles,' said Mr. Giles.

'I an't,' said Brittles.

'You are,' said Giles.

'You're a falsehood, Mr. Giles,' said Brittles.

'You're a lie, Brittles,' said Mr. Giles.

Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles'staunt; and Mr. Giles's taunt had arisen from hisindignation at having the responsibility of go-ing home again, imposed upon himself under

cover of a compliment. The third man broughtthe dispute to a close, most philosophically.

'I'll tell you what it is, gentlemen,' said he,'we're all afraid.'

'Speak for yourself, sir,' said Mr. Giles, whowas the palest of the party.

'So I do,' replied the man. 'It's natural andproper to be afraid, under such circumstances. Iam.'

'So am I,' said Brittles; 'only there's no call to tella man he is, so bounceably.'

These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles,who at once owned that he was afraid; uponwhich, they all three faced about, and ran backagain with the completest unanimity, until Mr.Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party,as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most

handsomely insisted on stopping, to make anapology for his hastiness of speech.

'But it's wonderful,' said Mr. Giles, when hehad explained, 'what a man will do, when hisblood is up. I should have committed murder—I know I should—if we'd caught one of themrascals.'

As the other two were impressed with a similarpresentiment; and as their blood, like his, hadall gone down again; some speculation ensuedupon the cause of this sudden change in theirtemperament.

'I know what it was,' said Mr. Giles; 'it was thegate.'

'I shouldn't wonder if it was,' exclaimed Brit-tles, catching at the idea.

'You may depend upon it,' said Giles, 'that thatgate stopped the flow of the excitement. I felt

all mine suddenly going away, as I was climb-ing over it.'

By a remarkable coincidence, the other two hadbeen visited with the same unpleasant sensa-tion at that precise moment. It was quite obvi-ous, therefore, that it was the gate; especially asthere was no doubt regarding the time at whichthe change had taken place, because all threeremembered that they had come in sight of therobbers at the instant of its occurance.

This dialogue was held between the two menwho had surprised the burglars, and a travel-ling tinker who had been sleeping in an out-house, and who had been roused, together withhis two mongrel curs, to join in the pursuit. Mr.Giles acted in the double capacity of butler andsteward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittleswas a lad of all-work: who, having entered herservice a mere child, was treated as a promisingyoung boy still, though he was something pastthirty.

Encouraging each other with such converse asthis; but, keeping very close together, notwith-standing, and looking apprehensively round,whenever a fresh gust rattled through theboughs; the three men hurried back to a tree,behind which they had left their lantern, lest itslight should inform the thieves in what direc-tion to fire. Catching up the light, they madethe best of their way home, at a good roundtrot; and long after their dusky forms hadceased to be discernible, the light might havebeen seen twinkling and dancing in the dis-tance, like some exhalation of the damp andgloomy atmosphere through which it wasswiftly borne.

The air grew colder, as day came slowly on;and the mist rolled along the ground like adense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; thepathways, and low places, were all mire andwater; the damp breath of an unwholesomewind went languidly by, with a hollow moan-

ing. Still, Oliver lay motionless and insensibleon the spot where Sikes had left him.

Morning drew on apace. The air become moresharp and piercing, as its first dull hue—thedeath of night, rather than the birth of day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects whichhad looked dim and terrible in the darkness,grew more and more defined, and graduallyresolved into their familiar shapes. The raincame down, thick and fast, and pattered noisilyamong the leafless bushes. But, Oliver felt itnot, as it beat against him; for he still laystretched, helpless and unconscious, on his bedof clay.

At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillnessthat prevailed; and uttering it, the boy awoke.His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hungheavy and useless at his side; the bandage wassaturated with blood. He was so weak, that hecould scarcely raise himself into a sitting pos-ture; when he had done so, he looked feebly

round for help, and groaned with pain. Trem-bling in every joint, from cold and exhaustion,he made an effort to stand upright; but, shud-dering from head to foot, fell prostrate on theground.

After a short return of the stupor in which hehad been so long plunged, Oliver: urged by acreeping sickness at his heart, which seemed towarn him that if he lay there, he must surelydie: got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. Hishead was dizzy, and he staggered to and frolike a drunken man. But he kept up, neverthe-less, and, with his head drooping languidly onhis breast, went stumbling onward, he knewnot whither.

And now, hosts of bewildering and confusedideas came crowding on his mind. He seemedto be still walking between Sikes and Crackit,who were angrily disputing—for the verywords they said, sounded in his ears; and whenhe caught his own attention, as it were, by mak-

ing some violent effort to save himself fromfalling, he found that he was talking to them.Then, he was alone with Sikes, plodding on ason the previous day; and as shadowy peoplepassed them, he felt the robber's grasp upon hiswrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report offirearms; there rose into the air, loud cries andshouts; lights gleamed before his eyes; all wasnoise and tumult, as some unseen hand borehim hurriedly away. Through all these rapidvisions, there ran an undefined, uneasy con-sciousness of pain, which wearied and tor-mented him incessantly.

Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost me-chanically, between the bars of gates, orthrough hedge-gaps as they came in his way,until he reached a road. Here the rain began tofall so heavily, that it roused him.

He looked about, and saw that at no great dis-tance there was a house, which perhaps hecould reach. Pitying his condition, they might

have compassion on him; and if they did not, itwould be better, he thought, to die near humanbeings, than in the lonely open fields. He sum-moned up all his strength for one last trial, andbent his faltering steps towards it.

As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling comeover him that he had seen it before. He remem-bered nothing of its details; but the shape andaspect of the building seemed familiar to him.

That garden wall! On the grass inside, he hadfallen on his knees last night, and prayed thetwo men's mercy. It was the very house theyhad attempted to rob.

Oliver felt such fear come over him when herecognised the place, that, for the instant, heforgot the agony of his wound, and thoughtonly of flight. Flight! He could scarcely stand:and if he were in full possession of all the bestpowers of his slight and youthful frame,whither could he fly? He pushed against the

garden-gate; it was unlocked, and swung openon its hinges. He tottered across the lawn;climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door;and, his whole strength failing him, sunk downagainst one of the pillars of the little portico.

It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles,Brittles, and the tinker, were recruiting them-selves, after the fatigues and terrors of thenight, with tea and sundries, in the kitchen. Notthat it was Mr. Giles's habit to admit to toogreat familiarity the humbler servants: towardswhom it was rather his wont to deport himselfwith a lofty affability, which, while it gratified,could not fail to remind them of his superiorposition in society. But, death, fires, and bur-glary, make all men equals; so Mr. Giles satwith his legs stretched out before the kitchenfender, leaning his left arm on the table, while,with his right, he illustrated a circumstantialand minute account of the robbery, to whichhis bearers (but especially the cook and house-

maid, who were of the party) listened withbreathless interest.

'It was about half-past two,' said Mr. Giles, 'or Iwouldn't swear that it mightn't have been alittle nearer three, when I woke up, and, turn-ing round in my bed, as it might be so, (hereMr. Giles turned round in his chair, and pulledthe corner of the table-cloth over him to imitatebed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.'

At this point of the narrative the cook turnedpale, and asked the housemaid to shut thedoor: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker,who pretended not to hear.

'—Heerd a noise,' continued Mr. Giles. 'I says,at first, "This is illusion"; and was composingmyself off to sleep, when I heerd the noiseagain, distinct.'

'What sort of a noise?' asked the cook.

'A kind of a busting noise,' replied Mr. Giles,looking round him.

'More like the noise of powdering a iron bar ona nutmeg-grater,' suggested Brittles.

'It was, when you heerd it, sir,' rejoined Mr.Giles; 'but, at this time, it had a busting sound. Iturned down the clothes'; continued Giles, roll-ing back the table-cloth, 'sat up in bed; and lis-tened.'

The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejacu-lated 'Lor!' and drew their chairs closer to-gether.

'I heerd it now, quite apparent,' resumed Mr.Giles. '"Somebody," I says, "is forcing of a door,or window; what's to be done? I'll call up thatpoor lad, Brittles, and save him from beingmurdered in his bed; or his throat," I says, "maybe cut from his right ear to his left, without hisever knowing it."'

Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, whofixed his upon the speaker, and stared at him,with his mouth wide open, and his face expres-sive of the most unmitigated horror.

'I tossed off the clothes,' said Giles, throwingaway the table-cloth, and looking very hard atthe cook and housemaid, 'got softly out of bed;drew on a pair of—'

'Ladies present, Mr. Giles,' murmured thetinker.

'—Of shoes, sir,' said Giles, turning upon him,and laying great emphasis on the word; 'seizedthe loaded pistol that always goes upstairs withthe plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to hisroom. "Brittles," I says, when I had woke him,"don't be frightened!"'

'So you did,' observed Brittles, in a low voice.

'"We're dead men, I think, Brittles," I says,' con-tinued Giles; '"but don't be frightened."'

'Was he frightened?' asked the cook.

'Not a bit of it,' replied Mr. Giles. 'He was asfirm—ah! pretty near as firm as I was.'

'I should have died at once, I'm sure, if it hadbeen me,' observed the housemaid.

'You're a woman,' retorted Brittles, plucking upa little.

'Brittles is right,' said Mr. Giles, nodding hishead, approvingly; 'from a woman, nothingelse was to be expected. We, being men, took adark lantern that was standing on Brittle's hob,and groped our way downstairs in the pitchdark,—as it might be so.'

Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and takentwo steps with his eyes shut, to accompany hisdescription with appropriate action, when he

started violently, in common with the rest ofthe company, and hurried back to his chair. Thecook and housemaid screamed.

'It was a knock,' said Mr. Giles, assuming per-fect serenity. 'Open the door, somebody.'

Nobody moved.

'It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock com-ing at such a time in the morning,' said Mr.Giles, surveying the pale faces which sur-rounded him, and looking very blank himself;'but the door must be opened. Do you hear,somebody?'

Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; butthat young man, being naturally modest,probably considered himself nobody, and soheld that the inquiry could not have any appli-cation to him; at all events, he tendered no re-ply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at

the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep.The women were out of the question.

'If Brittles would rather open the door, in thepresence of witnesses,' said Mr. Giles, after ashort silence, 'I am ready to make one.'

'So am I,' said the tinker, waking up, as sud-denly as he had fallen asleep.

Brittles capitulated on these terms; and theparty being somewhat re-assured by the dis-covery (made on throwing open the shutters)that it was now broad day, took their way up-stairs; with the dogs in front. The two women,who were afraid to stay below, brought up therear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talkedvery loud, to warn any evil-disposed personoutside, that they were strong in numbers; andby a master-stoke of policy, originating in thebrain of the same ingenious gentleman, thedogs' tails were well pinched, in the hall, tomake them bark savagely.

These precautions having been taken, Mr. Gilesheld on fast by the tinker's arm (to prevent hisrunning away, as he pleasantly said), and gavethe word of command to open the door. Brittlesobeyed; the group, peeping timorously overeach other's shoulders, beheld no more formi-dable object than poor little Oliver Twist,speechless and exhausted, who raised hisheavy eyes, and mutely solicited their compas-sion.

'A boy!' exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushingthe tinker into the background. 'What's the mat-ter with the—eh?—Why—Brittles—look here—don't you know?'

Brittles, who had got behind the door to openit, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loudcry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg andone arm (fortunately not the broken limb)lugged him straight into the hall, and depositedhim at full length on the floor thereof.

'Here he is!' bawled Giles, calling in a state ofgreat excitement, up the staircase; 'here's one ofthe thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief, miss!Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittlesheld the light.'

'—In a lantern, miss,' cried Brittles, applyingone hand to the side of his mouth, so that hisvoice might travel the better.

The two women-servants ran upstairs to carrythe intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured arobber; and the tinker busied himself in en-deavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should diebefore he could be hanged. In the midst of allthis noise and commotion, there was heard asweet female voice, which quelled it in an in-stant.

'Giles!' whispered the voice from the stair-head.

'I'm here, miss,' replied Mr. Giles. 'Don't befrightened, miss; I ain't much injured. He didn't

make a very desperate resistance, miss! I wassoon too many for him.'

'Hush!' replied the young lady; 'you frightenmy aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poorcreature much hurt?'

'Wounded desperate, miss,' replied Giles, withindescribable complacency.

'He looks as if he was a-going, miss,' bawledBrittles, in the same manner as before. 'Would-n't you like to come and look at him, miss, incase he should?'

'Hush, pray; there's a good man!' rejoined thelady. 'Wait quietly only one instant, while Ispeak to aunt.'

With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice,the speaker tripped away. She soon returned,with the direction that the wounded personwas to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr.

Giles's room; and that Brittles was to saddle thepony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey:from which place, he was to despatch, with allspeed, a constable and doctor.

'But won't you take one look at him, first, miss?'asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliverwere some bird of rare plumage, that he hadskilfully brought down. 'Not one little peep,miss?'

'Not now, for the world,' replied the younglady. 'Poor fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Gilesfor my sake!'

The old servant looked up at the speaker, as sheturned away, with a glance as proud and ad-miring as if she had been his own child. Then,bending over Oliver, he helped to carry himupstairs, with the care and solicitude of awoman.

CHAPTER XXIX

HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNTOF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE,TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED

In a handsome room: though its furniture hadrather the air of old-fashioned comfort, than ofmodern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed withscrupulous care in a full suit of black, was inattendance upon them. He had taken his stationsome half-way between the side-board and thebreakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up toits full height, his head thrown back, and in-clined the merest trifle on one side, his left legadvanced, and his right hand thrust into hiswaist-coat, while his left hung down by hisside, grasping a waiter, looked like one wholaboured under a very agreeable sense of hisown merits and importance.

Of the two ladies, one was well advanced inyears; but the high-backed oaken chair inwhich she sat, was not more upright than she.Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision,in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, withsome slight concessions to the prevailing taste,which rather served to point the old stylepleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in astately manner, with her hands folded on thetable before her. Her eyes (and age haddimmed but little of their brightness) were at-tentively upon her young companion.

The younger lady was in the lovely bloom andspring-time of womanhood; at that age, when,if ever angels be for God's good purposes en-throned in mortal forms, they may be, withoutimpiety, supposed to abide in such as hers.

She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slightand exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; sopure and beautiful; that earth seemed not herelement, nor its rough creatures her fit compan-

ions. The very intelligence that shone in herdeep blue eye, and was stamped upon her no-ble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of theworld; and yet the changing expression ofsweetness and good humour, the thousandlights that played about the face, and left noshadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful,happy smile, were made for Home, and firesidepeace and happiness.

She was busily engaged in the little offices ofthe table. Chancing to raise her eyes as theelder lady was regarding her, she playfully putback her hair, which was simply braided on herforehead; and threw into her beaming look,such an expression of affection and artless love-liness, that blessed spirits might have smiled tolook upon her.

'And Brittles has been gone upwards of anhour, has he?' asked the old lady, after a pause.

'An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,' repliedMr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which hedrew forth by a black ribbon.

'He is always slow,' remarked the old lady.

'Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am,' repliedthe attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brit-tles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirtyyears, there appeared no great probability ofhis ever being a fast one.

'He gets worse instead of better, I think,' saidthe elder lady.

'It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to playwith any other boys,' said the young lady, smil-ing.

Mr. Giles was apparently considering the pro-priety of indulging in a respectful smile him-self, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate:out of which there jumped a fat gentleman,

who ran straight up to the door: and who, get-ting quickly into the house by some mysteriousprocess, burst into the room, and nearly over-turned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table to-gether.

'I never heard of such a thing!' exclaimed the fatgentleman. 'My dear Mrs. Maylie—bless mysoul—in the silence of the night, too—I neverheard of such a thing!'

With these expressions of condolence, the fatgentleman shook hands with both ladies, anddrawing up a chair, inquired how they foundthemselves.

'You ought to be dead; positively dead with thefright,' said the fat gentleman. 'Why didn't yousend? Bless me, my man should have come in aminute; and so would I; and my assistantwould have been delighted; or anybody, I'msure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! Sounexpected! In the silence of the night, too!'

The doctor seemed expecially troubled by thefact of the robbery having been unexpected,and attempted in the night-time; as if it werethe established custom of gentlemen in thehousebreaking way to transact business atnoon, and to make an appointment, by post, aday or two previous.

'And you, Miss Rose,' said the doctor, turningto the young lady, 'I—'

'Oh! very much so, indeed,' said Rose, inter-rupting him; 'but there is a poor creature up-stairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.'

'Ah! to be sure,' replied the doctor, 'so there is.That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand.'

Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting thetea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and saidthat he had had that honour.

'Honour, eh?' said the doctor; 'well, I don'tknow; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thiefin a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelvepaces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you'vefought a duel, Giles.'

Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment ofthe matter an unjust attempt at diminishing hisglory, answered respectfully, that it was not forthe like of him to judge about that; but herather thought it was no joke to the oppositeparty.

'Gad, that's true!' said the doctor. 'Where is he?Show me the way. I'll look in again, as I comedown, Mrs. Maylie. That's the little windowthat he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn't have be-lieved it!'

Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles up-stairs; and while he is going upstairs, the readermay be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeonin the neighbourhood, known through a circuit

of ten miles round as 'the doctor,' had grownfat, more from good-humour than from goodliving: and was as kind and hearty, and withalas eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found infive times that space, by any explorer alive.

The doctor was absent, much longer than eitherhe or the ladies had anticipated. A large flatbox was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroombell was rung very often; and the servants ranup and down stairs perpetually; from whichtokens it was justly concluded that somethingimportant was going on above. At length hereturned; and in reply to an anxious inquiryafter his patient; looked very mysterious, andclosed the door, carefully.

'This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. May-lie,' said the doctor, standing with his back tothe door, as if to keep it shut.

'He is not in danger, I hope?' said the old lady.

'Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing,under the circumstances,' replied the doctor;'though I don't think he is. Have you seen thethief?'

'No,' rejoined the old lady.

'Nor heard anything about him?'

'No.'

'I beg your pardon, ma'am, interposed Mr.Giles; 'but I was going to tell you about himwhen Doctor Losberne came in.'

The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first,been able to bring his mind to the avowal, thathe had only shot a boy. Such commendationshad been bestowed upon his bravery, that hecould not, for the life of him, help postponingthe explanation for a few delicious minutes;during which he had flourished, in the very

zenith of a brief reputation for undauntedcourage.

'Rose wished to see the man,' said Mrs. Maylie,'but I wouldn't hear of it.'

'Humph!' rejoined the doctor. 'There is nothingvery alarming in his appearance. Have you anyobjection to see him in my presence?'

'If it be necessary,' replied the old lady, 'cer-tainly not.'

'Then I think it is necessary,' said the doctor; 'atall events, I am quite sure that you woulddeeply regret not having done so, if you post-poned it. He is perfectly quiet and comfortablenow. Allow me—Miss Rose, will you permitme? Not the slightest fear, I pledge you myhonour!'

CHAPTER XXX

RELATES WHAT OLIVER'S NEW VISI-TORS THOUGHT OF HIM

With many loquacious assurances that theywould be agreeably surprised in the aspect ofthe criminal, the doctor drew the young lady'sarm through one of his; and offering his disen-gaged hand to Mrs. Maylie, led them, withmuch ceremony and stateliness, upstairs.

'Now,' said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softlyturned the handle of a bedroom-door, 'let ushear what you think of him. He has not beenshaved very recently, but he don't look at allferocious notwithstanding. Stop, though! Letme first see that he is in visiting order.'

Stepping before them, he looked into the room.Motioning them to advance, he closed the doorwhen they had entered; and gently drew backthe curtains of the bed. Upon it, in lieu of the

dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had ex-pected to behold, there lay a mere child: wornwith pain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deepsleep. His wounded arm, bound and splinteredup, was crossed upon his breast; his head re-clined upon the other arm, which was half hid-den by his long hair, as it streamed over thepillow.

The honest gentleman held the curtain in hishand, and looked on, for a minute or so, in si-lence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus,the younger lady glided softly past, and seatingherself in a chair by the bedside, gatheredOliver's hair from his face. As she stooped overhim, her tears fell upon his forehead.

The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, asthough these marks of pity and compassionhad awakened some pleasant dream of a loveand affection he had never known. Thus, astrain of gentle music, or the rippling of waterin a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the

mention of a familiar word, will sometimes callup sudden dim remembrances of scenes thatnever were, in this life; which vanish like abreath; which some brief memory of a happierexistence, long gone by, would seem to haveawakened; which no voluntary exertion of themind can ever recall.

'What can this mean?' exclaimed the elder lady.'This poor child can never have been the pupilof robbers!'

'Vice,' said the surgeon, replacing the curtain,'takes up her abode in many temples; and whocan say that a fair outside shell not enshrineher?'

'But at so early an age!' urged Rose.

'My dear young lady,' rejoined the surgeon,mournfully shaking his head; 'crime, like death,is not confined to the old and withered alone.

The youngest and fairest are too often its cho-sen victims.'

'But, can you—oh! can you really believe thatthis delicate boy has been the voluntary associ-ate of the worst outcasts of society?' said Rose.

The surgeon shook his head, in a manner whichintimated that he feared it was very possible;and observing that they might disturb the pa-tient, led the way into an adjoining apartment.

'But even if he has been wicked,' pursued Rose,'think how young he is; think that he maynever have known a mother's love, or the com-fort of a home; that ill-usage and blows, or thewant of bread, may have driven him to herdwith men who have forced him to guilt. Aunt,dear aunt, for mercy's sake, think of this, beforeyou let them drag this sick child to a prison,which in any case must be the grave of all hischances of amendment. Oh! as you love me,and know that I have never felt the want of

parents in your goodness and affection, butthat I might have done so, and might have beenequally helpless and unprotected with this poorchild, have pity upon him before it is too late!'

'My dear love,' said the elder lady, as shefolded the weeping girl to her bosom, 'do youthink I would harm a hair of his head?'

'Oh, no!' replied Rose, eagerly.

'No, surely,' said the old lady; 'my days aredrawing to their close: and may mercy beshown to me as I show it to others! What can Ido to save him, sir?'

'Let me think, ma'am,' said the doctor; 'let methink.'

Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets,and took several turns up and down the room;often stopping, and balancing himself on histoes, and frowning frightfully. After various

exclamations of 'I've got it now' and 'no, Ihaven't,' and as many renewals of the walkingand frowning, he at length made a dead halt,and spoke as follows:

'I think if you give me a full and unlimitedcommission to bully Giles, and that little boy,Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful fel-low and an old servant, I know; but you canmake it up to him in a thousand ways, and re-ward him for being such a good shot besides.You don't object to that?'

'Unless there is some other way of preservingthe child,' replied Mrs. Maylie.

'There is no other,' said the doctor. 'No other,take my word for it.'

'Then my aunt invests you with full power,'said Rose, smiling through her tears; 'but praydon't be harder upon the poor fellows than isindispensably necessary.'

'You seem to think,' retorted the doctor, 'thateverybody is disposed to be hard-hearted to-day, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, forthe sake of the rising male sex generally, thatyou may be found in as vulnerable and soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fel-low who appeals to your compassion; and Iwish I were a young fellow, that I might availmyself, on the spot, of such a favourable oppor-tunity for doing so, as the present.'

'You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,'returned Rose, blushing.

'Well,' said the doctor, laughing heartily, 'that isno very difficult matter. But to return to thisboy. The great point of our agreement is yet tocome. He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say;and although I have told that thick-headedconstable-fellow downstairs that he musn't bemoved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I thinkwe may converse with him without danger.Now I make this stipulation—that I shall exam-

ine him in your presence, and that, if, fromwhat he says, we judge, and I can show to thesatisfaction of your cool reason, that he is a realand thorough bad one (which is more than pos-sible), he shall be left to his fate, without anyfarther interference on my part, at all events.'

'Oh no, aunt!' entreated Rose.

'Oh yes, aunt!' said the doctor. 'Is is a bargain?'

'He cannot be hardened in vice,' said Rose; 'It isimpossible.'

'Very good,' retorted the doctor; 'then so muchthe more reason for acceding to my proposi-tion.'

Finally the treaty was entered into; and the par-ties thereunto sat down to wait, with some im-patience, until Oliver should awake.

The patience of the two ladies was destined toundergo a longer trial than Mr. Losberne had

led them to expect; for hour after hour passedon, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It wasevening, indeed, before the kind-hearted doctorbrought them the intelligence, that he was atlength sufficiently restored to be spoken to. Theboy was very ill, he said, and weak from theloss of blood; but his mind was so troubledwith anxiety to disclose something, that hedeemed it better to give him the opportunity,than to insist upon his remaining quiet untilnext morning: which he should otherwise havedone.

The conference was a long one. Oliver toldthem all his simple history, and was often com-pelled to stop, by pain and want of strength. Itwas a solemn thing, to hear, in the darkenedroom, the feeble voice of the sick child recount-ing a weary catalogue of evils and calamitieswhich hard men had brought upon him. Oh! ifwhen we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the

dark evidences of human error, which, likedense and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly it istrue, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pourtheir after-vengeance on our heads; if we heardbut one instant, in imagination, the deep testi-mony of dead men's voices, which no powercan stifle, and no pride shut out; where wouldbe the injury and injustice, the suffering, mis-ery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day's lifebrings with it!

Oliver's pillow was smoothed by gentle handsthat night; and loveliness and virtue watchedhim as he slept. He felt calm and happy, andcould have died without a murmur.

The momentous interview was no sooner con-cluded, and Oliver composed to rest again,than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and con-demning them for being weak all at once, be-took himself downstairs to open upon Mr.Giles. And finding nobody about the parlours,it occurred to him, that he could perhaps origi-

nate the proceedings with better effect in thekitchen; so into the kitchen he went.

There were assembled, in that lower house ofthe domestic parliament, the women-servants,Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had re-ceived a special invitation to regale himself forthe remainder of the day, in consideration ofhis services), and the constable. The latter gen-tleman had a large staff, a large head, largefeatures, and large half-boots; and he looked asif he had been taking a proportionate allowanceof ale—as indeed he had.

The adventures of the previous night were stillunder discussion; for Mr. Giles was expatiatingupon his presence of mind, when the doctorentered; Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in hishand, was corroborating everything, before hissuperior said it.

'Sit still!' said the doctor, waving his hand.

'Thank you, sir, said Mr. Giles. 'Misses wishedsome ale to be given out, sir; and as I felt noways inclined for my own little room, sir, andwas disposed for company, I am taking mineamong 'em here.'

Brittles headed a low murmur, by which theladies and gentlemen generally were under-stood to express the gratification they derivedfrom Mr. Giles's condescension. Mr. Gileslooked round with a patronising air, as muchas to say that so long as they behaved properly,he would never desert them.

'How is the patient to-night, sir?' asked Giles.

'So-so'; returned the doctor. 'I am afraid youhave got yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles.'

'I hope you don't mean to say, sir,' said Mr.Giles, trembling, 'that he's going to die. If Ithought it, I should never be happy again. I

wouldn't cut a boy off: no, not even Brittleshere; not for all the plate in the county, sir.'

'That's not the point,' said the doctor, mysteri-ously. 'Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?'

'Yes, sir, I hope so,' faltered Mr. Giles, who hadturned very pale.

'And what are you, boy?' said the doctor, turn-ing sharply upon Brittles.

'Lord bless me, sir!' replied Brittles, startingviolently; 'I'm the same as Mr. Giles, sir.'

'Then tell me this,' said the doctor, 'both of you,both of you! Are you going to take upon your-selves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boythat was put through the little window lastnight? Out with it! Come! We are prepared foryou!'

The doctor, who was universally consideredone of the best-tempered creatures on earth,

made this demand in such a dreadful tone ofanger, that Giles and Brittles, who were consid-erably muddled by ale and excitement, staredat each other in a state of stupefaction.

'Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?'said the doctor, shaking his forefinger withgreat solemnity of manner, and tapping thebridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exer-cise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. 'Some-thing may come of this before long.'

The constable looked as wise as he could, andtook up his staff of office: which had been re-clining indolently in the chimney-corner.

'It's a simple question of identity, you will ob-serve,' said the doctor.

'That's what it is, sir,' replied the constable,coughing with great violence; for he had fin-ished his ale in a hurry, and some of it hadgone the wrong way.

'Here's the house broken into,' said the doctor,'and a couple of men catch one moment'sglimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowdersmoke, and in all the distraction of alarm anddarkness. Here's a boy comes to that very samehouse, next morning, and because he happensto have his arm tied up, these men lay violenthands upon him—by doing which, they placehis life in great danger—and swear he is thethief. Now, the question is, whether these menare justified by the fact; if not, in what situationdo they place themselves?'

The constable nodded profoundly. He said, ifthat wasn't law, he would be glad to knowwhat was.

'I ask you again,' thundered the doctor, 'areyou, on your solemn oaths, able to identify thatboy?'

Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr.Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the consta-

ble put his hand behind his ear, to catch thereply; the two women and the tinker leanedforward to listen; the doctor glanced keenlyround; when a ring was heard at the gate, andat the same moment, the sound of wheels.

'It's the runners!' cried Brittles, to all appear-ance much relieved.

'The what?' exclaimed the doctor, aghast in histurn.

'The Bow Street officers, sir,' replied Brittles,taking up a candle; 'me and Mr. Giles sent for'em this morning.'

'What?' cried the doctor.

'Yes,' replied Brittles; 'I sent a message up bythe coachman, and I only wonder they weren'there before, sir.'

'You did, did you? Then confound your—slowcoaches down here; that's all,' said the doctor,walking away.

CHAPTER XXXI

INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION

'Who's that?' inquired Brittles, opening the doora little way, with the chain up, and peeping out,shading the candle with his hand.

'Open the door,' replied a man outside; 'it's theofficers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day.'

Much comforted by this assurance, Brittlesopened the door to its full width, and con-fronted a portly man in a great-coat; whowalked in, without saying anything more, and

wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if helived there.

'Just send somebody out to relieve my mate,will you, young man?' said the officer; 'he's inthe gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got acoach 'us here, that you could put it up in, forfive or ten minutes?'

Brittles replying in the affirmative, and point-ing out the building, the portly man steppedback to the garden-gate, and helped his com-panion to put up the gig: while Brittles lightedthem, in a state of great admiration. This done,they returned to the house, and, being showninto a parlour, took off their great-coats andhats, and showed like what they were.

The man who had knocked at the door, was astout personage of middle height, aged aboutfifty: with shiny black hair, cropped prettyclose; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharpeyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in

top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured counte-nance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose.

'Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff ishere, will you?' said the stouter man, smooth-ing down his hair, and laying a pair of hand-cuffs on the table. 'Oh! Good-evening, master.Can I have a word or two with you in private, ifyou please?'

This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who nowmade his appearance; that gentleman, motion-ing Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies,and shut the door.

'This is the lady of the house,' said Mr. Los-berne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie.

Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sitdown, he put his hat on the floor, and taking achair, motioned to Duff to do the same. Thelatter gentleman, who did not appear quite somuch accustomed to good society, or quite so

much at his ease in it—one of the two—seatedhimself, after undergoing several muscularaffections of the limbs, and the head of his stickinto his mouth, with some embarrassment.

'Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,'said Blathers. 'What are the circumstances?'

Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gain-ing time, recounted them at great length, andwith much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathersand Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, andoccasionally exchanged a nod.

'I can't say, for certain, till I see the work, ofcourse,' said Blathers; 'but my opinion at onceis,—I don't mind committing myself to thatextent,—that this wasn't done by a yokel; eh,Duff?'

'Certainly not,' replied Duff.

'And, translating the word yokel for the benefitof the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be,that this attempt was not made by a country-man?' said Mr. Losberne, with a smile.

'That's it, master,' replied Blathers. 'This is allabout the robbery, is it?'

'All,' replied the doctor.

'Now, what is this, about this here boy that theservants are a-talking on?' said Blathers.

'Nothing at all,' replied the doctor. 'One of thefrightened servants chose to take it into hishead, that he had something to do with thisattempt to break into the house; but it's non-sense: sheer absurdity.'

'Wery easy disposed of, if it is,' remarked Duff.

'What he says is quite correct,' observed Blath-ers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way,and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if

they were a pair of castanets. 'Who is the boy?What account does he give of himself? Wheredid he come from? He didn't drop out of theclouds, did he, master?'

'Of course not,' replied the doctor, with a nerv-ous glance at the two ladies. 'I know his wholehistory: but we can talk about that presently.You would like, first, to see the place where thethieves made their attempt, I suppose?'

'Certainly,' rejoined Mr. Blathers. 'We had bet-ter inspect the premises first, and examine theservants afterwards. That's the usual way ofdoing business.'

Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blath-ers and Duff, attended by the native constable,Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short,went into the little room at the end of the pas-sage and looked out at the window; and after-wards went round by way of the lawn, andlooked in at the window; and after that, had a

candle handed out to inspect the shutter with;and after that, a lantern to trace the footstepswith; and after that, a pitchfork to poke thebushes with. This done, amidst the breathlessinterest of all beholders, they came in again;and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through amelodramatic representation of their share inthe previous night's adventures: which theyperformed some six times over: contradictingeach other, in not more than one importantrespect, the first time, and in not more than adozen the last. This consummation being ar-rived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room,and held a long council together, comparedwith which, for secrecy and solemnity, a con-sultation of great doctors on the knottiest pointin medicine, would be mere child's play.

Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and downthe next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs.Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces.

'Upon my word,' he said, making a halt, after agreat number of very rapid turns, 'I hardlyknow what to do.'

'Surely,' said Rose, 'the poor child's story, faith-fully repeated to these men, will be sufficient toexonerate him.'

'I doubt it, my dear young lady,' said the doc-tor, shaking his head. 'I don't think it wouldexonerate him, either with them, or with legalfunctionaries of a higher grade. What is he,after all, they would say? A runaway. Judgedby mere worldly considerations and probabili-ties, his story is a very doubtful one.'

'You believe it, surely?' interrupted Rose.

'I believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I maybe an old fool for doing so,' rejoined the doctor;'but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a prac-tical police-officer, nevertheless.'

'Why not?' demanded Rose.

'Because, my pretty cross-examiner,' replied thedoctor: 'because, viewed with their eyes, thereare many ugly points about it; he can onlyprove the parts that look ill, and none of thosethat look well. Confound the fellows, they willhave the why and the wherefore, and will takenothing for granted. On his own showing, yousee, he has been the companion of thieves forsome time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman'spocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, fromthat gentleman's house, to a place which hecannot describe or point out, and of the situa-tion of which he has not the remotest idea. Heis brought down to Chertsey, by men whoseem to have taken a violent fancy to him,whether he will or no; and is put through awindow to rob a house; and then, just at thevery moment when he is going to alarm theinmates, and so do the very thing that would

set him all to rights, there rushes into the way,a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, andshoots him! As if on purpose to prevent hisdoing any good for himself! Don't you see allthis?'

'I see it, of course,' replied Rose, smiling at thedoctor's impetuosity; 'but still I do not see any-thing in it, to criminate the poor child.'

'No,' replied the doctor; 'of course not! Bless thebright eyes of your sex! They never see,whether for good or bad, more than one side ofany question; and that is, always, the one whichfirst presents itself to them.'

Having given vent to this result of experience,the doctor put his hands into his pockets, andwalked up and down the room with evengreater rapidity than before.

'The more I think of it,' said the doctor, 'themore I see that it will occasion endless trouble

and difficulty if we put these men in possessionof the boy's real story. I am certain it will not bebelieved; and even if they can do nothing tohim in the end, still the dragging it forward,and giving publicity to all the doubts that willbe cast upon it, must interfere, materially, withyour benevolent plan of rescuing him frommisery.'

'Oh! what is to be done?' cried Rose. 'Dear,dear! why did they send for these people?'

'Why, indeed!' exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. 'I wouldnot have had them here, for the world.'

'All I know is,' said Mr. Losberne, at last: sittingdown with a kind of desperate calmness, 'thatwe must try and carry it off with a bold face.The object is a good one, and that must be ourexcuse. The boy has strong symptoms of feverupon him, and is in no condition to be talked toany more; that's one comfort. We must make

the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no faultof ours. Come in!'

'Well, master,' said Blathers, entering the roomfollowed by his colleague, and making the doorfast, before he said any more. 'This warn't aput-up thing.'

'And what the devil's a put-up thing?' de-manded the doctor, impatiently.

'We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,' said Blath-ers, turning to them, as if he pitied their igno-rance, but had a contempt for the doctor's,'when the servants is in it.'

'Nobody suspected them, in this case,' said Mrs.Maylie.

'Wery likely not, ma'am,' replied Blathers; 'butthey might have been in it, for all that.'

'More likely on that wery account,' said Duff.

'We find it was a town hand,' said Blathers,continuing his report; 'for the style of work isfirst-rate.'

'Wery pretty indeed it is,' remarked Duff, in anundertone.

'There was two of 'em in it,' continued Blathers;'and they had a boy with 'em; that's plain fromthe size of the window. That's all to be said atpresent. We'll see this lad that you've got up-stairs at once, if you please.'

'Perhaps they will take something to drink first,Mrs. Maylie?' said the doctor: his face brighten-ing, as if some new thought had occurred tohim.

'Oh! to be sure!' exclaimed Rose, eagerly. 'Youshall have it immediately, if you will.'

'Why, thank you, miss!' said Blathers, drawinghis coat-sleeve across his mouth; 'it's dry work,

this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss;don't put yourself out of the way, on our ac-counts.'

'What shall it be?' asked the doctor, followingthe young lady to the sideboard.

'A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all thesame,' replied Blathers. 'It's a cold ride fromLondon, ma'am; and I always find that spiritscomes home warmer to the feelings.'

This interesting communication was addressedto Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously.While it was being conveyed to her, the doctorslipped out of the room.

'Ah!' said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom be-tween the thumb and forefinger of his lefthand: and placing it in front of his chest; 'I haveseen a good many pieces of business like this,in my time, ladies.'

'That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton,Blathers,' said Mr. Duff, assisting his col-league's memory.

'That was something in this way, warn't it?'rejoined Mr. Blathers; 'that was done by Con-key Chickweed, that was.'

'You always gave that to him' replied Duff. 'Itwas the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn'tany more to do with it than I had.'

'Get out!' retorted Mr. Blathers; 'I know better.Do you mind that time when Conkey wasrobbed of his money, though? What a start thatwas! Better than any novel-book I ever see!'

'What was that?' inquired Rose: anxious to en-courage any symptoms of good-humour in theunwelcome visitors.

'It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybodywould have been down upon,' said Blathers.'This here Conkey Chickweed—'

'Conkey means Nosey, ma'am,' interposedDuff.

'Of course the lady knows that, don't she?' de-manded Mr. Blathers. 'Always interrupting,you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed,miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridgeway, and he had a cellar, where a good manyyoung lords went to see cock-fighting, andbadger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellec-tual manner the sports was conducted in, forI've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the fam-ily, at that time; and one night he was robbed ofthree hundred and twenty-seven guineas in acanvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroomin the dead of night, by a tall man with a blackpatch over his eye, who had concealed himselfunder the bed, and after committing the rob-bery, jumped slap out of window: which was

only a story high. He was wery quick about it.But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blun-derbuss arter him, and roused the neighbour-hood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, andwhen they came to look about 'em, found thatConkey had hit the robber; for there was tracesof blood, all the way to some palings a gooddistance off; and there they lost 'em. However,he had made off with the blunt; and, conse-quently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensedwitler, appeared in the Gazette among theother bankrupts; and all manner of benefits andsubscriptions, and I don't know what all, wasgot up for the poor man, who was in a werylow state of mind about his loss, and went upand down the streets, for three or four days, apulling his hair off in such a desperate mannerthat many people was afraid he might be goingto make away with himself. One day he cameup to the office, all in a hurry, and had a privateinterview with the magistrate, who, after a dealof talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in

(Jem was a active officer), and tells him to goand assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending theman as robbed his house. "I see him, Spyers,"said Chickweed, "pass my house yesterdaymorning," "Why didn't you up, and collar him!"says Spyers. "I was so struck all of a heap, thatyou might have fractured my skull with atoothpick," says the poor man; "but we're sureto have him; for between ten and eleven o'clockat night he passed again." Spyers no soonerheard this, than he put some clean linen and acomb, in his pocket, in case he should have tostop a day or two; and away he goes, and setshimself down at one of the public-house win-dows behind the little red curtain, with his haton, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice.He was smoking his pipe here, late at night,when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out,"Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!" Jem Spyersdashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goesSpyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the

people; everybody roars out, "Thieves!" andChickweed himself keeps on shouting, all thetime, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a min-ute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees alittle crowd; dives in; "Which is the man?" "D—me!" says Chickweed, "I've lost him again!" Itwas a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't tobe seen nowhere, so they went back to the pub-lic-house. Next morning, Spyers took his oldplace, and looked out, from behind the curtain,for a tall man with a black patch over his eye,till his own two eyes ached again. At last, hecouldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a min-ute; and the very moment he did so, he hearsChickweed a-roaring out, "Here he is!" Off hestarts once more, with Chickweed half-waydown the street ahead of him; and after twiceas long a run as the yesterday's one, the man'slost again! This was done, once or twice more,till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr.Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, whowas playing tricks with him arterwards; and

the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed hadgone mad with grief.'

'What did Jem Spyers say?' inquired the doctor;who had returned to the room shortly after thecommencement of the story.

'Jem Spyers,' resumed the officer, 'for a longtime said nothing at all, and listened to every-thing without seeming to, which showed heunderstood his business. But, one morning, hewalked into the bar, and taking out his snuff-box, says "Chickweed, I've found out who donethis here robbery." "Have you?" said Chick-weed. "Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me havewengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, mydear Spyers, where is the villain!" "Come!" saidSpyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, "none ofthat gammon! You did it yourself." So he had;and a good bit of money he had made by it, too;and nobody would never have found it out, ifhe hadn't been so precious anxious to keep upappearances!' said Mr. Blathers, putting down

his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs to-gether.

'Very curious, indeed,' observed the doctor.'Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs.'

'If you please, sir,' returned Mr. Blathers.Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two offi-cers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Gilespreceding the party, with a lighted candle.

Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, andwas more feverish than he had appeared yet.Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to situp in bed for a minute or so; and looked at thestrangers without at all understanding whatwas going forward—in fact, without seemingto recollect where he was, or what had beenpassing.

'This,' said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, butwith great vehemence notwithstanding, 'this isthe lad, who, being accidently wounded by a

spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr.What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here,comes to the house for assistance this morning,and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated,by that ingenious gentleman with the candle inhis hand: who has placed his life in consider-able danger, as I can professionally certify.'

Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles,as he was thus recommended to their notice.The bewildered butler gazed from them to-wards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr.Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fearand perplexity.

'You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?' saidthe doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.

'It was all done for the—for the best, sir,' an-swered Giles. 'I am sure I thought it was theboy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. Iam not of an inhuman disposition, sir.'

'Thought it was what boy?' inquired the seniorofficer.

'The housebreaker's boy, sir!' replied Giles.'They—they certainly had a boy.'

'Well? Do you think so now?' inquired Blathers.

'Think what, now?' replied Giles, looking va-cantly at his questioner.

'Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?' rejoinedBlathers, impatiently.

'I don't know; I really don't know,' said Giles,with a rueful countenance. 'I couldn't swear tohim.'

'What do you think?' asked Mr. Blathers.

'I don't know what to think,' replied poor Giles.'I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almostcertain that it isn't. You know it can't be.'

'Has this man been a-drinking, sir?' inquiredBlathers, turning to the doctor.

'What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!'said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supremecontempt.

Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient'spulse during this short dialogue; but he nowrose from the chair by the bedside, and re-marked, that if the officers had any doubtsupon the subject, they would perhaps like tostep into the next room, and have Brittles be-fore them.

Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned toa neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles,being called in, involved himself and his re-spected superior in such a wonderful maze offresh contradictions and impossibilities, astended to throw no particular light on any-thing, but the fact of his own strong mystifica-tion; except, indeed, his declarations that he

shouldn't know the real boy, if he were putbefore him that instant; that he had only takenOliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said hewas; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes pre-viously, admitted in the kitchen, that he beganto be very much afraid he had been a little toohasty.

Among other ingenious surmises, the questionwas then raised, whether Mr. Giles had reallyhit anybody; and upon examination of the fel-low pistol to that which he had fired, it turnedout to have no more destructive loading thangunpowder and brown paper: a discoverywhich made a considerable impression on eve-rybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ballabout ten minutes before. Upon no one, how-ever, did it make a greater impression than onMr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, forsome hours, under the fear of having mortallywounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught atthis new idea, and favoured it to the utmost.

Finally, the officers, without troubling them-selves very much about Oliver, left the Chert-sey constable in the house, and took up theirrest for that night in the town; promising toreturn the next morning.

With the next morning, there came a rumour,that two men and a boy were in the cage atKingston, who had been apprehended overnight under suspicious circumstances; and toKingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyedaccordingly. The suspicious circumstances,however, resolving themselves, on investiga-tion, into the one fact, that they had been dis-covered sleeping under a haystack; which, al-though a great crime, is only punishable byimprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of theEnglish law, and its comprehensive love of allthe King's subjects, held to be no satisfactoryproof, in the absence of all other evidence, thatthe sleeper, or sleepers, have committed bur-glary accompanied with violence, and have

therefore rendered themselves liable to thepunishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duffcame back again, as wise as they went.

In short, after some more examination, and agreat deal more conversation, a neighbouringmagistrate was readily induced to take the jointbail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne forOliver's appearance if he should ever be calledupon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewardedwith a couple of guineas, returned to town withdivided opinions on the subject of their expedi-tion: the latter gentleman on a mature consid-eration of all the circumstances, inclining to thebelief that the burglarious attempt had origi-nated with the Family Pet; and the former be-ing equally disposed to concede the full meritof it to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed.

Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and pros-pered under the united care of Mrs. Maylie,Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. Iffervent prayers, gushing from hearts over-

charged with gratitude, be heard in heaven—and if they be not, what prayers are!—the bless-ings which the orphan child called down uponthem, sunk into their souls, diffusing peace andhappiness.

CHAPTER XXXII

OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TOLEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS

Oliver's ailings were neither slight nor few. Inaddition to the pain and delay attendant on abroken limb, his exposure to the wet and coldhad brought on fever and ague: which hungabout him for many weeks, and reduced himsadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees,to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, ina few tearful words, how deeply he felt thegoodness of the two sweet ladies, and how ar-

dently he hoped that when he grew strong andwell again, he could do something to show hisgratitude; only something, which would letthem see the love and duty with which hisbreast was full; something, however slight,which would prove to them that their gentlekindness had not been cast away; but that thepoor boy whom their charity had rescued frommisery, or death, was eager to serve them withhis whole heart and soul.

'Poor fellow!' said Rose, when Oliver had beenone day feebly endeavouring to utter the wordsof thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; 'youshall have many opportunities of serving us, ifyou will. We are going into the country, andmy aunt intends that you shall accompany us.The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleas-ure and beauties of spring, will restore you in afew days. We will employ you in a hundredways, when you can bear the trouble.'

'The trouble!' cried Oliver. 'Oh! dear lady, if Icould but work for you; if I could only give youpleasure by watering your flowers, or watchingyour birds, or running up and down the wholeday long, to make you happy; what would Igive to do it!'

'You shall give nothing at all,' said Miss Maylie,smiling; 'for, as I told you before, we shall em-ploy you in a hundred ways; and if you onlytake half the trouble to please us, that youpromise now, you will make me very happyindeed.'

'Happy, ma'am!' cried Oliver; 'how kind of youto say so!'

'You will make me happier than I can tell you,'replied the young lady. 'To think that my deargood aunt should have been the means of res-cuing any one from such sad misery as youhave described to us, would be an unspeakablepleasure to me; but to know that the object of

her goodness and compassion was sincerelygrateful and attached, in consequence, woulddelight me, more than you can well imagine.Do you understand me?' she inquired, watch-ing Oliver's thoughtful face.

'Oh yes, ma'am, yes!' replied Oliver eagerly;'but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.'

'To whom?' inquired the young lady.

'To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse,who took so much care of me before,' rejoinedOliver. 'If they knew how happy I am, theywould be pleased, I am sure.'

'I am sure they would,' rejoined Oliver's bene-factress; 'and Mr. Losberne has already beenkind enough to promise that when you are wellenough to bear the journey, he will carry you tosee them.'

'Has he, ma'am?' cried Oliver, his face brighten-ing with pleasure. 'I don't know what I shall dofor joy when I see their kind faces once again!'

In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recov-ered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition.One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, ac-cordingly, in a little carriage which belonged toMrs. Maylie. When they came to ChertseyBridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered aloud exclamation.

'What's the matter with the boy?' cried the doc-tor, as usual, all in a bustle. 'Do you see any-thing—hear anything—feel anything—eh?'

'That, sir,' cried Oliver, pointing out of the car-riage window. 'That house!'

'Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull uphere,' cried the doctor. 'What of the house, myman; eh?'

'The thieves—the house they took me to!' whis-pered Oliver.

'The devil it is!' cried the doctor. 'Hallo, there!let me out!'

But, before the coachman could dismount fromhis box, he had tumbled out of the coach, bysome means or other; and, running down to thedeserted tenement, began kicking at the doorlike a madman.

'Halloa?' said a little ugly hump-backed man:opening the door so suddenly, that the doctor,from the very impetus of his last kick, nearlyfell forward into the passage. 'What's the matterhere?'

'Matter!' exclaimed the other, collaring him,without a moment's reflection. 'A good deal.Robbery is the matter.'

'There'll be Murder the matter, too,' replied thehump-backed man, coolly, 'if you don't takeyour hands off. Do you hear me?'

'I hear you,' said the doctor, giving his captive ahearty shake.

'Where's—confound the fellow, what's his ras-cally name—Sikes; that's it. Where's Sikes, youthief?'

The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess ofamazement and indignation; then, twistinghimself, dexterously, from the doctor's grasp,growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and re-tired into the house. Before he could shut thedoor, however, the doctor had passed into theparlour, without a word of parley.

He looked anxiously round; not an article offurniture; not a vestige of anything, animate orinanimate; not even the position of the cup-boards; answered Oliver's description!

'Now!' said the hump-backed man, who hadwatched him keenly, 'what do you mean bycoming into my house, in this violent way? Doyou want to rob me, or to murder me? Which isit?'

'Did you ever know a man come out to do ei-ther, in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous oldvampire?' said the irritable doctor.

'What do you want, then?' demanded thehunchback. 'Will you take yourself off, before Ido you a mischief? Curse you!'

'As soon as I think proper,' said Mr. Losberne,looking into the other parlour; which, like thefirst, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver'saccount of it. 'I shall find you out, some day,my friend.'

'Will you?' sneered the ill-favoured cripple. 'Ifyou ever want me, I'm here. I haven't lived heremad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to

be scared by you. You shall pay for this; youshall pay for this.' And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and dancedupon the ground, as if wild with rage.

'Stupid enough, this,' muttered the doctor tohimself; 'the boy must have made a mistake.Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourselfup again.' With these words he flung thehunchback a piece of money, and returned tothe carriage.

The man followed to the chariot door, utteringthe wildest imprecations and curses all theway; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to thedriver, he looked into the carriage, and eyedOliver for an instant with a glance so sharp andfierce and at the same time so furious and vin-dictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could notforget it for months afterwards. He continuedto utter the most fearful imprecations, until thedriver had resumed his seat; and when theywere once more on their way, they could see

him some distance behind: beating his feetupon the ground, and tearing his hair, in trans-ports of real or pretended rage.

'I am an ass!' said the doctor, after a long si-lence. 'Did you know that before, Oliver?'

'No, sir.'

'Then don't forget it another time.'

'An ass,' said the doctor again, after a furthersilence of some minutes. 'Even if it had been theright place, and the right fellows had beenthere, what could I have done, single-handed?And if I had had assistance, I see no good that Ishould have done, except leading to my ownexposure, and an unavoidable statement of themanner in which I have hushed up this busi-ness. That would have served me right, though.I am always involving myself in some scrape orother, by acting on impulse. It might have doneme good.'

Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor hadnever acted upon anything but impulse allthrough his life, and it was no bad complimentto the nature of the impulses which governedhim, that so far from being involved in any pe-culiar troubles or misfortunes, he had thewarmest respect and esteem of all who knewhim. If the truth must be told, he was a little outof temper, for a minute or two, at being disap-pointed in procuring corroborative evidence ofOliver's story on the very first occasion onwhich he had a chance of obtaining any. Hesoon came round again, however; and findingthat Oliver's replies to his questions, were stillas straightforward and consistent, and still de-livered with as much apparent sincerity andtruth, as they had ever been, he made up hismind to attach full credence to them, from thattime forth.

As Oliver knew the name of the street in whichMr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to

drive straight thither. When the coach turnedinto it, his heart beat so violently, that he couldscarcely draw his breath.

'Now, my boy, which house is it?' inquired Mr.Losberne.

'That! That!' replied Oliver, pointing eagerlyout of the window. 'The white house. Oh! makehaste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die:it makes me tremble so.'

'Come, come!' said the good doctor, pattinghim on the shoulder. 'You will see them di-rectly, and they will be overjoyed to find yousafe and well.'

'Oh! I hope so!' cried Oliver. 'They were sogood to me; so very, very good to me.'

The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that wasthe wrong house; the next door. It went on afew paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up

at the windows, with tears of happy expecta-tion coursing down his face.

Alas! the white house was empty, and therewas a bill in the window. 'To Let.'

'Knock at the next door,' cried Mr. Losberne,taking Oliver's arm in his. 'What has become ofMr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoin-ing house, do you know?'

The servant did not know; but would go andinquire. She presently returned, and said, thatMr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and goneto the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliverclasped his hands, and sank feebly backward.

'Has his housekeeper gone too?' inquired Mr.Losberne, after a moment's pause.

'Yes, sir'; replied the servant. 'The old gentle-man, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who

was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went to-gether.'

'Then turn towards home again,' said Mr. Los-berne to the driver; 'and don't stop to bait thehorses, till you get out of this confounded Lon-don!'

'The book-stall keeper, sir?' said Oliver. 'I knowthe way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!'

'My poor boy, this is disappointment enoughfor one day,' said the doctor. 'Quite enough forboth of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's,we shall certainly find that he is dead, or hasset his house on fire, or run away. No; homeagain straight!' And in obedience to the doctor'simpulse, home they went.

This bitter disappointment caused Oliver muchsorrow and grief, even in the midst of his hap-piness; for he had pleased himself, many timesduring his illness, with thinking of all that Mr.

Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him:and what delight it would be to tell them howmany long days and nights he had passed inreflecting on what they had done for him, andin bewailing his cruel separation from them.The hope of eventually clearing himself withthem, too, and explaining how he had beenforced away, had buoyed him up, and sus-tained him, under many of his recent trials; andnow, the idea that they should have gone sofar, and carried with them the belief that hewas an impostor and a robber—a belief whichmight remain uncontradicted to his dyingday—was almost more than he could bear.

The circumstance occasioned no alteration,however, in the behaviour of his benefactors.After another fortnight, when the fine warmweather had fairly begun, and every tree andflower was putting forth its young leaves andrich blossoms, they made preparations for quit-ting the house at Chertsey, for some months.

Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin'scupidity, to the banker's; and leaving Giles andanother servant in care of the house, they de-parted to a cottage at some distance in thecountry, and took Oliver with them.

Who can describe the pleasure and delight, thepeace of mind and soft tranquillity, the sicklyboy felt in the balmy air, and among the greenhills and rich woods, of an inland village! Whocan tell how scenes of peace and quietude sinkinto the minds of pain-worn dwellers in closeand noisy places, and carry their own fresh-ness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men whohave lived in crowded, pent-up streets, throughlives of toil, and who have never wished forchange; men, to whom custom has indeed beensecond nature, and who have come almost tolove each brick and stone that formed the nar-row boundaries of their daily walks; even they,with the hand of death upon them, have beenknown to yearn at last for one short glimpse of

Nature's face; and, carried far from the scenesof their old pains and pleasures, have seemedto pass at once into a new state of being. Crawl-ing forth, from day to day, to some green sunnyspot, they have had such memories wakenedup within them by the sight of the sky, and hilland plain, and glistening water, that a foretasteof heaven itself has soothed their quick decline,and they have sunk into their tombs, as peace-fully as the sun whose setting they watchedfrom their lonely chamber window but a fewhours before, faded from their dim and feeblesight! The memories which peaceful countryscenes call up, are not of this world, nor of itsthoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence mayteach us how to weave fresh garlands for thegraves of those we loved: may purify ourthoughts, and bear down before it old enmityand hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, inthe least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feel-ings long before, in some remote and distant

time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distanttimes to come, and bends down pride andworldliness beneath it.

It was a lovely spot to which they repaired.Oliver, whose days had been spent amongsqualid crowds, and in the midst of noise andbrawling, seemed to enter on a new existencethere. The rose and honeysuckle clung to thecottage walls; the ivy crept round the trunks ofthe trees; and the garden-flowers perfumed theair with delicious odours. Hard by, was a littlechurchyard; not crowded with tall unsightlygravestones, but full of humble mounds, cov-ered with fresh turf and moss: beneath which,the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliveroften wandered here; and, thinking of thewretched grave in which his mother lay, wouldsometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but,when he raised his eyes to the deep sky over-head, he would cease to think of her as lying in

the ground, and would weep for her, sadly, butwithout pain.

It was a happy time. The days were peacefuland serene; the nights brought with them nei-ther fear nor care; no languishing in a wretchedprison, or associating with wretched men; noth-ing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Everymorning he went to a white-headed old gen-tleman, who lived near the little church: whotaught him to read better, and to write: andwho spoke so kindly, and took such pains, thatOliver could never try enough to please him.Then, he would walk with Mrs. Maylie andRose, and hear them talk of books; or perhapssit near them, in some shady place, and listenwhilst the young lady read: which he couldhave done, until it grew too dark to see the let-ters. Then, he had his own lesson for the nextday to prepare; and at this, he would workhard, in a little room which looked into thegarden, till evening came slowly on, when the

ladies would walk out again, and he with them:listening with such pleasure to all they said:and so happy if they wanted a flower that hecould climb to reach, or had forgotten anythinghe could run to fetch: that he could never bequick enough about it. When it became quitedark, and they returned home, the young ladywould sit down to the piano, and play somepleasant air, or sing, in a low and gentle voice,some old song which it pleased her aunt tohear. There would be no candles lighted at suchtimes as these; and Oliver would sit by one ofthe windows, listening to the sweet music, in aperfect rapture.

And when Sunday came, how differently theday was spent, from any way in which he hadever spent it yet! and how happily too; like allthe other days in that most happy time! Therewas the little church, in the morning, with thegreen leaves fluttering at the windows: thebirds singing without: and the sweet-smelling

air stealing in at the low porch, and filling thehomely building with its fragrance. The poorpeople were so neat and clean, and knelt soreverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure,not a tedious duty, their assembling there to-gether; and though the singing might be rude,it was real, and sounded more musical (toOliver's ears at least) than any he had everheard in church before. Then, there were thewalks as usual, and many calls at the cleanhouses of the labouring men; and at night,Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible,which he had been studying all the week, andin the performance of which duty he felt moreproud and pleased, than if he had been theclergyman himself.

In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by sixo'clock, roaming the fields, and plundering thehedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wildflowers, with which he would return laden,home; and which it took great care and consid-

eration to arrange, to the best advantage, forthe embellishment of the breakfast-table. Therewas fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie'sbirds, with which Oliver, who had been study-ing the subject under the able tuition of the vil-lage clerk, would decorate the cages, in themost approved taste. When the birds weremade all spruce and smart for the day, therewas usually some little commission of charityto execute in the village; or, failing that, therewas rare cricket-playing, sometimes, on thegreen; or, failing that, there was always some-thing to do in the garden, or about the plants,to which Oliver (who had studied this sciencealso, under the same master, who was a gar-dener by trade,) applied himself with heartygood-will, until Miss Rose made her appear-ance: when there were a thousand commenda-tions to be bestowed on all he had done.

So three months glided away; three monthswhich, in the life of the most blessed and fa-

voured of mortals, might have been unmingledhappiness, and which, in Oliver's were truefelicity. With the purest and most amiable gen-erosity on one side; and the truest, warmest,soul-felt gratitude on the other; it is no wonderthat, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twisthad become completely domesticated with theold lady and her niece, and that the ferventattachment of his young and sensitive heart,was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to,himself.

CHAPTER XXXIII

WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVERAND HIS FRIENDS,EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK

Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. Ifthe village had been beautiful at first it was

now in the full glow and luxuriance of its rich-ness. The great trees, which had lookedshrunken and bare in the earlier months, hadnow burst into strong life and health; andstretching forth their green arms over thethirsty ground, converted open and nakedspots into choice nooks, where was a deep andpleasant shade from which to look upon thewide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which laystretched beyond. The earth had donned hermantle of brightest green; and shed her richestperfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigourof the year; all things were glad and flourish-ing.

Still, the same quiet life went on at the littlecottage, and the same cheerful serenity pre-vailed among its inmates. Oliver had long sincegrown stout and healthy; but health or sicknessmade no difference in his warm feelings of agreat many people. He was still the same gen-tle, attached, affectionate creature that he had

been when pain and suffering had wasted hisstrength, and when he was dependent for everyslight attention, and comfort on those whotended him.

One beautiful night, when they had taken alonger walk than was customary with them: forthe day had been unusually warm, and therewas a brilliant moon, and a light wind hadsprung up, which was unusually refreshing.Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they hadwalked on, in merry conversation, until theyhad far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs.Maylie being fatigued, they returned moreslowly home. The young lady merely throwingoff her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano asusual. After running abstractedly over the keysfor a few minutes, she fell into a low and verysolemn air; and as she played it, they heard asound as if she were weeping.

'Rose, my dear!' said the elder lady.

Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker,as though the words had roused her from somepainful thoughts.

'Rose, my love!' cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hast-ily, and bending over her. 'What is this? Intears! My dear child, what distresses you?'

'Nothing, aunt; nothing,' replied the younglady. 'I don't know what it is; I can't describe it;but I feel—'

'Not ill, my love?' interposed Mrs. Maylie.

'No, no! Oh, not ill!' replied Rose: shudderingas though some deadly chillness were passingover her, while she spoke; 'I shall be betterpresently. Close the window, pray!'

Oliver hastened to comply with her request.The young lady, making an effort to recoverher cheerfulness, strove to play some liveliertune; but her fingers dropped powerless over

the keys. Covering her face with her hands, shesank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tearswhich she was now unable to repress.

'My child!' said the elderly lady, folding herarms about her, 'I never saw you so before.'

'I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,' re-joined Rose; 'but indeed I have tried very hard,and cannot help this. I fear I am ill, aunt.'

She was, indeed; for, when candles werebrought, they saw that in the very short timewhich had elapsed since their return home, thehue of her countenance had changed to a mar-ble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothingof its beauty; but it was changed; and there wasan anxious haggard look about the gentle face,which it had never worn before. Another min-ute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush:and a heavy wildness came over the soft blueeye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow

thrown by a passing cloud; and she was oncemore deadly pale.

Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously,observed that she was alarmed by these ap-pearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeingthat she affected to make light of them, he en-deavoured to do the same, and they so far suc-ceeded, that when Rose was persuaded by heraunt to retire for the night, she was in betterspirits; and appeared even in better health: as-suring them that she felt certain she should risein the morning, quite well.

'I hope,' said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie re-turned, 'that nothing is the matter? She don'tlook well to-night, but—'

The old lady motioned to him not to speak; andsitting herself down in a dark corner of theroom, remained silent for some time. At length,she said, in a trembling voice:

'I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happywith her for some years: too happy, perhaps. Itmay be time that I should meet with some mis-fortune; but I hope it is not this.'

'What?' inquired Oliver.

'The heavy blow,' said the old lady, 'of losingthe dear girl who has so long been my comfortand happiness.'

'Oh! God forbid!' exclaimed Oliver, hastily.

'Amen to that, my child!' said the old lady,wringing her hands.

'Surely there is no danger of anything so dread-ful?' said Oliver. 'Two hours ago, she was quitewell.'

'She is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs. Maylies; 'andwill be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose!Oh, what shall I do without her!'

She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver,suppressing his own emotion, ventured to re-monstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that,for the sake of the dear young lady herself, shewould be more calm.

'And consider, ma'am,' said Oliver, as the tearsforced themselves into his eyes, despite of hisefforts to the contrary. 'Oh! consider howyoung and good she is, and what pleasure andcomfort she gives to all about her. I am sure—certain—quite certain—that, for your sake, whoare so good yourself; and for her own; and forthe sake of all she makes so happy; she will notdie. Heaven will never let her die so young.'

'Hush!' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand onOliver's head. 'You think like a child, poor boy.But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. Ihad forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but Ihope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and haveseen enough of illness and death to know theagony of separation from the objects of our

love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it isnot always the youngest and best who arespared to those that love them; but this shouldgive us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven isjust; and such things teach us, impressively,that there is a brighter world than this; and thatthe passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! Ilove her; and He knows how well!'

Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Mayliesaid these words, she checked her lamentationsas though by one effort; and drawing herself upas she spoke, became composed and firm. Hewas still more astonished to find that this firm-ness lasted; and that, under all the care andwatching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was everyready and collected: performing all the dutieswhich had devolved upon her, steadily, and, toall external appearances, even cheerfully. Buthe was young, and did not know what strongminds are capable of, under trying circum-

stances. How should he, when their possessorsso seldom know themselves?

An anxious night ensued. When morning came,Mrs. Maylie's predictions were but too wellverified. Rose was in the first stage of a highand dangerous fever.

'We must be active, Oliver, and not give way touseless grief,' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her fin-ger on her lip, as she looked steadily into hisface; 'this letter must be sent, with all possibleexpedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be carriedto the market-town: which is not more thanfour miles off, by the footpath across the field:and thence dispatched, by an express on horse-back, straight to Chertsey. The people at the innwill undertake to do this: and I can trust to youto see it done, I know.'

Oliver could make no reply, but looked hisanxiety to be gone at once.

'Here is another letter,' said Mrs. Maylie, paus-ing to reflect; 'but whether to send it now, orwait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcelyknow. I would not forward it, unless I fearedthe worst.'

'Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver;impatient to execute his commission, and hold-ing out his trembling hand for the letter.

'No,' replied the old lady, giving it to him me-chanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that itwas directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at somegreat lord's house in the country; where, hecould not make out.

'Shall it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up,impatiently.

'I think not,' replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back.'I will wait until to-morrow.'

With these words, she gave Oliver her purse,and he started off, without more delay, at thegreatest speed he could muster.

Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down thelittle lanes which sometimes divided them:now almost hidden by the high corn on eitherside, and now emerging on an open field,where the mowers and haymakers were busy attheir work: nor did he stop once, save now andthen, for a few seconds, to recover breath, untilhe came, in a great heat, and covered with dust,on the little market-place of the market-town.

Here he paused, and looked about for the inn.There were a white bank, and a red brewery,and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner therewas a large house, with all the wood about itpainted green: before which was the sign of'The George.' To this he hastened, as soon as itcaught his eye.

He spoke to a postboy who was dozing underthe gateway; and who, after hearing what hewanted, referred him to the ostler; who afterhearing all he had to say again, referred him tothe landlord; who was a tall gentleman in ablue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, andboots with tops to match, leaning against apump by the stable-door, picking his teeth witha silver toothpick.

This gentleman walked with much deliberationinto the bar to make out the bill: which took along time making out: and after it was ready,and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a manto be dressed, which took up ten good minutesmore. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desper-ate state of impatience and anxiety, that he feltas if he could have jumped upon the horsehimself, and galloped away, full tear, to thenext stage. At length, all was ready; and thelittle parcel having been handed up, with manyinjunctions and entreaties for its speedy deliv-

ery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattlingover the uneven paving of the market-place,was out of the town, and galloping along theturnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.

As it was something to feel certain that assis-tance was sent for, and that no time had beenlost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with asomewhat lighter heart. He was turning out ofthe gateway when he accidently stumbledagainst a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who wasat that moment coming out of the inn door.

'Hah!' cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver,and suddenly recoiling. 'What the devil's this?'

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver; 'I was in agreat hurry to get home, and didn't see youwere coming.'

'Death!' muttered the man to himself, glaring atthe boy with his large dark eyes. 'Who would

have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd startup from a stone coffin, to come in my way!'

'I am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by thestrange man's wild look. 'I hope I have not hurtyou!'

'Rot you!' murmured the man, in a horriblepassion; between his clenched teeth; 'if I hadonly had the courage to say the word, I mighthave been free of you in a night. Curses onyour head, and black death on your heart, youimp! What are you doing here?'

The man shook his fist, as he uttered thesewords incoherently. He advanced towardsOliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blowat him, but fell violently on the ground: writh-ing and foaming, in a fit.

Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles ofthe madman (for such he supposed him to be);and then darted into the house for help. Having

seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turnedhis face homewards, running as fast as hecould, to make up for lost time: and recallingwith a great deal of astonishment and somefear, the extraordinary behaviour of the personfrom whom he had just parted.

The circumstance did not dwell in his recollec-tion long, however: for when he reached thecottage, there was enough to occupy his mind,and to drive all considerations of self com-pletely from his memory.

Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; beforemid-night she was delirious. A medical practi-tioner, who resided on the spot, was in constantattendance upon her; and after first seeing thepatient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, andpronounced her disorder to be one of a mostalarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it would belittle short of a miracle, if she recovered.'

How often did Oliver start from his bed thatnight, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep,to the staircase, listen for the slightest soundfrom the sick chamber! How often did a trem-ble shake his frame, and cold drops of terrorstart upon his brow, when a sudden tramplingof feet caused him to fear that something toodreadful to think of, had even then occurred!And what had been the fervency of all theprayers he had ever muttered, compared withthose he poured forth, now, in the agony andpassion of his supplication for the life andhealth of the gentle creature, who was totteringon the deep grave's verge!

Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, ofstanding idly by while the life of one we dearlylove, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the rack-ing thoughts that crowd upon the mind, andmake the heart beat violently, and the breathcome thick, by the force of the images they con-jure up before it; the desperate anxiety to be

doing something to relieve the pain, or lessen thedanger, which we have no power to alleviate;the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sadremembrance of our helplessness produces;what tortures can equal these; what reflectionsor endeavours can, in the full tide and fever ofthe time, allay them!

Morning came; and the little cottage was lonelyand still. People spoke in whispers; anxiousfaces appeared at the gate, from time to time;women and children went away in tears. Allthe livelong day, and for hours after it hadgrown dark, Oliver paced softly up and downthe garden, raising his eyes every instant to thesick chamber, and shuddering to see the dark-ened window, looking as if death lay stretchedinside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. 'Itis hard,' said the good doctor, turning away ashe spoke; 'so young; so much beloved; butthere is very little hope.'

Another morning. The sun shone brightly; asbrightly as if it looked upon no misery or care;and, with every leaf and flower in full bloomabout her; with life, and health, and soundsand sights of joy, surrounding her on everyside: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast.Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, andsitting down on one of the green mounds, weptand prayed for her, in silence.

There was such peace and beauty in the scene;so much of brightness and mirth in the sunnylandscape; such blithesome music in the songsof the summer birds; such freedom in the rapidflight of the rook, careering overhead; so muchof life and joyousness in all; that, when the boyraised his aching eyes, and looked about, thethought instinctively occurred to him, that thiswas not a time for death; that Rose could surelynever die when humbler things were all so gladand gay; that graves were for cold and cheer-less winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He

almost thought that shrouds were for the oldand shrunken; and that they never wrapped theyoung and graceful form in their ghastly folds.

A knell from the church bell broke harshly onthese youthful thoughts. Another! Again! Itwas tolling for the funeral service. A group ofhumble mourners entered the gate: wearingwhite favours; for the corpse was young. Theystood uncovered by a grave; and there was amother—a mother once—among the weepingtrain. But the sun shone brightly, and the birdssang on.

Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the manykindnesses he had received from the younglady, and wishing that the time could comeagain, that he might never cease showing herhow grateful and attached he was. He had nocause for self-reproach on the score of neglect,or want of thought, for he had been devoted toher service; and yet a hundred little occasionsrose up before him, on which he fancied he

might have been more zealous, and more ear-nest, and wished he had been. We need be care-ful how we deal with those about us, whenevery death carries to some small circle of sur-vivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and solittle done—of so many things forgotten, and somany more which might have been repaired!There is no remorse so deep as that which isunavailing; if we would be spared its tortures,let us remember this, in time.

When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sittingin the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sightof her; for she had never left the bedside of herniece; and he trembled to think what changecould have driven her away. He learnt that shehad fallen into a deep sleep, from which shewould waken, either to recovery and life, or tobid them farewell, and die.

They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, forhours. The untasted meal was removed, withlooks which showed that their thoughts were

elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sanklower and lower, and, at length, cast over skyand earth those brilliant hues which herald hisdeparture. Their quick ears caught the sound ofan approaching footstep. They both involuntar-ily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered.

'What of Rose?' cried the old lady. 'Tell me atonce! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh,tell me! in the name of Heaven!'

'You must compose yourself,' said the doctorsupporting her. 'Be calm, my dear ma'am,pray.'

'Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! Sheis dead! She is dying!'

'No!' cried the doctor, passionately. 'As He isgood and merciful, she will live to bless us all,for years to come.'

The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to foldher hands together; but the energy which hadsupported her so long, fled up to Heaven withher first thanksgiving; and she sank into thefriendly arms which were extended to receiveher.

CHAPTER XXXIV

CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORYPARTICULARS RELATIVETO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOWARRIVES UPON THE SCENE;AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAP-PENED TO OLIVER

It was almost too much happiness to bear.Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unex-pected intelligence; he could not weep, orspeak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of

understanding anything that had passed, until,after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, aburst of tears came to his relief, and he seemedto awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joy-ful change that had occurred, and the almostinsupportable load of anguish which had beentaken from his breast.

The night was fast closing in, when he returnedhomeward: laden with flowers which he hadculled, with peculiar care, for the adornment ofthe sick chamber. As he walked briskly alongthe road, he heard behind him, the noise ofsome vehicle, approaching at a furious pace.Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horseswere galloping, and the road was narrow, hestood leaning against a gate until it should havepassed him.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of aman in a white nightcap, whose face seemedfamiliar to him, although his view was so brief

that he could not identify the person. In an-other second or two, the nightcap was thrustout of the chaise-window, and a stentorianvoice bellowed to the driver to stop: which hedid, as soon as he could pull up his horses.Then, the nightcap once again appeared: andthe same voice called Oliver by his name.

'Here!' cried the voice. 'Oliver, what's the news?Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!'

'Is is you, Giles?' cried Oliver, running up to thechaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, prepara-tory to making some reply, when he was sud-denly pulled back by a young gentleman whooccupied the other corner of the chaise, andwho eagerly demanded what was the news.

'In a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better orworse?'

'Better—much better!' replied Oliver, hastily.

'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman. 'Youare sure?'

'Quite, sir,' replied Oliver. 'The change tookplace only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losbernesays, that all danger is at an end.'

The gentleman said not another word, but,opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and takingOliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.

'You are quite certain? There is no possibility ofany mistake on your part, my boy, is there?'demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice.'Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes thatare not to be fulfilled.'

'I would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver.'Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne'swords were, that she would live to bless us allfor many years to come. I heard him say so.'

The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalledthe scene which was the beginning of so muchhappiness; and the gentleman turned his faceaway, and remained silent, for some minutes.Oliver thought he heard him sob, more thanonce; but he feared to interrupt him by anyfresh remark—for he could well guess what hisfeelings were—and so stood apart, feigning tobe occupied with his nosegay.

All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcapon, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise,supporting an elbow on each knee, and wipinghis eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchiefdotted with white spots. That the honest fellowhad not been feigning emotion, was abundantlydemonstrated by the very red eyes with whichhe regarded the young gentleman, when heturned round and addressed him.

'I think you had better go on to my mother's inthe chaise, Giles,' said he. 'I would rather walk

slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I seeher. You can say I am coming.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,' said Giles: giv-ing a final polish to his ruffled countenancewith the handkerchief; 'but if you would leavethe postboy to say that, I should be very muchobliged to you. It wouldn't be proper for themaids to see me in this state, sir; I should neverhave any more authority with them if they did.'

'Well,' rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you cando as you like. Let him go on with the luggage,if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Onlyfirst exchange that nightcap for some more ap-propriate covering, or we shall be taken formadmen.'

Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming cos-tume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap;and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape,which he took out of the chaise. This done, the

postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, andOliver, followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced fromtime to time with much interest and curiosity atthe new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middleheight; his countenance was frank and hand-some; and his demeanor easy and prepossess-ing. Notwithstanding the difference betweenyouth and age, he bore so strong a likeness tothe old lady, that Oliver would have had nogreat difficulty in imagining their relationship,if he had not already spoken of her as hismother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receiveher son when he reached the cottage. The meet-ing did not take place without great emotion onboth sides.

'Mother!' whispered the young man; 'why didyou not write before?'

'I did,' replied Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, Idetermined to keep back the letter until I hadheard Mr. Losberne's opinion.'

'But why,' said the young man, 'why run thechance of that occurring which so nearly hap-pened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that wordnow—if this illness had terminated differently,how could you ever have forgiven yourself!How could I ever have know happiness again!'

'If that had been the case, Harry,' said Mrs.Maylie, 'I fear your happiness would have beeneffectually blighted, and that your arrival here,a day sooner or a day later, would have been ofvery, very little import.'

'And who can wonder if it be so, mother?' re-joined the young man; 'or why should I say,if?—It is—it is—you know it, mother—youmust know it!'

'I know that she deserves the best and purestlove the heart of man can offer,' said Mrs. May-lie; 'I know that the devotion and affection ofher nature require no ordinary return, but onethat shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feelthis, and know, besides, that a changed behav-iour in one she loved would break her heart, Ishould not feel my task so difficult of perform-ance, or have to encounter so many struggles inmy own bosom, when I take what seems to meto be the strict line of duty.'

'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry. 'Do youstill suppose that I am a boy ignorant of myown mind, and mistaking the impulses of myown soul?'

'I think, my dear son,' returned Mrs. Maylie,laying her hand upon his shoulder, 'that youthhas many generous impulses which do not last;and that among them are some, which, beinggratified, become only the more fleeting. Aboveall, I think' said the lady, fixing her eyes on her

son's face, 'that if an enthusiastic, ardent, andambitious man marry a wife on whose namethere is a stain, which, though it originate in nofault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordidpeople upon her, and upon his children also:and, in exact proportion to his success in theworld, be cast in his teeth, and made the subjectof sneers against him: he may, no matter howgenerous and good his nature, one day repentof the connection he formed in early life. Andshe may have the pain of knowing that he doesso.'

'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'hewould be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of thename of man and of the woman you describe,who acted thus.'

'You think so now, Harry,' replied his mother.

'And ever will!' said the young man. 'The men-tal agony I have suffered, during the last twodays, wrings from me the avowal to you of a

passion which, as you well know, is not one ofyesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. OnRose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, asfirmly as ever heart of man was set on woman.I have no thought, no view, no hope in life,beyond her; and if you oppose me in this greatstake, you take my peace and happiness inyour hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother,think better of this, and of me, and do not dis-regard the happiness of which you seem tothink so little.'

'Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'it is because I thinkso much of warm and sensitive hearts, that Iwould spare them from being wounded. Butwe have said enough, and more than enough,on this matter, just now.'

'Let it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry.'You will not press these overstrained opinionsof yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in myway?'

'I will not,' rejoined Mrs. Maylie; 'but I wouldhave you consider—'

'I have considered!' was the impatient reply;'Mother, I have considered, years and years. Ihave considered, ever since I have been capableof serious reflection. My feelings remain un-changed, as they ever will; and why should Isuffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent,which can be productive of no earthly good?No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hearme.'

'She shall,' said Mrs. Maylie.

'There is something in your manner, whichwould almost imply that she will hear mecoldly, mother,' said the young man.

'Not coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.'

'How then?' urged the young man. 'She hasformed no other attachment?'

'No, indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or Imistake, too strong a hold on her affectionsalready. What I would say,' resumed the oldlady, stopping her son as he was about tospeak, 'is this. Before you stake your all on thischance; before you suffer yourself to be carriedto the highest point of hope; reflect for a fewmoments, my dear child, on Rose's history, andconsider what effect the knowledge of herdoubtful birth may have on her decision: de-voted as she is to us, with all the intensity ofher noble mind, and with that perfect sacrificeof self which, in all matters, great or trifling,has always been her characteristic.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs. May-lie. 'I must go back to her. God bless you!'

'I shall see you again to-night?' said the youngman, eagerly.

'By and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leaveRose.'

'You will tell her I am here?' said Harry.

'Of course,' replied Mrs. Maylie.

'And say how anxious I have been, and howmuch I have suffered, and how I long to seeher. You will not refuse to do this, mother?'

'No,' said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.' Andpressing her son's hand, affectionately, she has-tened from the room.

Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at an-other end of the apartment while this hurriedconversation was proceeding. The former nowheld out his hand to Harry Maylie; and heartysalutations were exchanged between them. Thedoctor then communicated, in reply to multi-farious questions from his young friend, a pre-cise account of his patient's situation; which

was quite as consolatory and full of promise, asOliver's statement had encouraged him tohope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles,who affected to be busy about the luggage, lis-tened with greedy ears.

'Have you shot anything particular, lately,Giles?' inquired the doctor, when he had con-cluded.

'Nothing particular, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, col-ouring up to the eyes.

'Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying anyhouse-breakers?' said the doctor.

'None at all, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, with muchgravity.

'Well,' said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it,because you do that sort of thing admirably.Pray, how is Brittles?'

'The boy is very well, sir,' said Mr. Giles, recov-ering his usual tone of patronage; 'and sendshis respectful duty, sir.'

'That's well,' said the doctor. 'Seeing you here,reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day beforethat on which I was called away so hurriedly, Iexecuted, at the request of your good mistress,a small commission in your favour. Just stepinto this corner a moment, will you?'

Mr. Giles walked into the corner with muchimportance, and some wonder, and was hon-oured with a short whispering conference withthe doctor, on the termination of which, hemade a great many bows, and retired withsteps of unusual stateliness. The subject matterof this conference was not disclosed in the par-lour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightenedconcerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straightthither, and having called for a mug of ale, an-nounced, with an air of majesty, which washighly effective, that it had pleased his mis-

tress, in consideration of his gallant behaviouron the occasion of that attempted robbery, todeposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum offive-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use andbenefit. At this, the two women-servants liftedup their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr.Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, 'No,no'; and that if they observed that he was at allhaughty to his inferiors, he would thank themto tell him so. And then he made a great manyother remarks, no less illustrative of his humil-ity, which were received with equal favour andapplause, and were, withal, as original and asmuch to the purpose, as the remarks of greatmen commonly are.

Above stairs, the remainder of the eveningpassed cheerfully away; for the doctor was inhigh spirits; and however fatigued or thought-ful Harry Maylie might have been at first, hewas not proof against the worthy gentleman'sgood humour, which displayed itself in a great

variety of sallies and professional recollections,and an abundance of small jokes, which struckOliver as being the drollest things he had everheard, and caused him to laugh proportion-ately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor,who laughed immoderately at himself, andmade Harry laugh almost as heartily, by thevery force of sympathy. So, they were as pleas-ant a party as, under the circumstances, theycould well have been; and it was late beforethey retired, with light and thankful hearts, totake that rest of which, after the doubt and sus-pense they had recently undergone, they stoodmuch in need.

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, andwent about his usual occupations, with morehope and pleasure than he had known formany days. The birds were once more hungout, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetestwild flowers that could be found, were oncemore gathered to gladden Rose with their

beauty. The melancholy which had seemed tothe sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, fordays past, over every object, beautiful as allwere, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemedto sparkle more brightly on the green leaves;the air to rustle among them with a sweetermusic; and the sky itself to look more blue andbright. Such is the influence which the condi-tion of our own thoughts, exercise, even overthe appearance of external objects. Men wholook on nature, and their fellow-men, and crythat all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; butthe sombre colours are reflections from theirown jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real huesare delicate, and need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not failto note it at the time, that his morning expedi-tions were no longer made alone. Harry May-lie, after the very first morning when he metOliver coming laden home, was seized withsuch a passion for flowers, and displayed such

a taste in their arrangement, as left his youngcompanion far behind. If Oliver were behind-hand in these respects, he knew where the bestwere to be found; and morning after morningthey scoured the country together, and broughthome the fairest that blossomed. The windowof the young lady's chamber was opened now;for she loved to feel the rich summer air streamin, and revive her with its freshness; but therealways stood in water, just inside the lattice,one particular little bunch, which was made upwith great care, every morning. Oliver couldnot help noticing that the withered flowerswere never thrown away, although the littlevase was regularly replenished; nor, could hehelp observing, that whenever the doctor cameinto the garden, he invariably cast his eyes upto that particular corner, and nodded his headmost expressively, as he set forth on his morn-ing's walk. Pending these observations, thedays were flying by; and Rose was rapidly re-covering.

Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands,although the young lady had not yet left herchamber, and there were no evening walks,save now and then, for a short distance, withMrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redou-bled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hardthat his quick progress surprised even himself.It was while he was engaged in this pursuit,that he was greatly startled and distressed by amost unexpected occurrence.

The little room in which he was accustomed tosit, when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite acottage-room, with a lattice-window: aroundwhich were clusters of jessamine and honey-suckle, that crept over the casement, and filledthe place with their delicious perfume. Itlooked into a garden, whence a wicket-gateopened into a small paddock; all beyond, wasfine meadow-land and wood. There was no

other dwelling near, in that direction; and theprospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades oftwilight were beginning to settle upon theearth, Oliver sat at this window, intent uponhis books. He had been poring over them forsome time; and, as the day had been uncom-monly sultry, and he had exerted himself agreat deal, it is no disparagement to the au-thors, whoever they may have been, to say, thatgradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon ussometimes, which, while it holds the body pris-oner, does not free the mind from a sense ofthings about it, and enable it to ramble at itspleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness,a prostration of strength, and an utter inabilityto control our thoughts or power of motion, canbe called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have aconsciousness of all that is going on about us,and, if we dream at such a time, words which

are really spoken, or sounds which really existat the moment, accommodate themselves withsurprising readiness to our visions, until realityand imagination become so strangely blendedthat it is afterwards almost matter of impossi-bility to separate the two. Nor is this, the moststriking phenomenon incidental to such a state.It is an undoubted fact, that although oursenses of touch and sight be for the time dead,yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionaryscenes that pass before us, will be influencedand materially influenced, by the mere silentpresence of some external object; which may nothave been near us when we closed our eyes:and of whose vicinity we have had no wakingconsciousness.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in hisown little room; that his books were lying onthe table before him; that the sweet air was stir-ring among the creeping plants outside. Andyet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene

changed; the air became close and confined;and he thought, with a glow of terror, that hewas in the Jew's house again. There sat thehideous old man, in his accustomed corner,pointing at him, and whispering to anotherman, with his face averted, who sat beside him.

'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jewsay; 'it is he, sure enough. Come away.'

'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could Imistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghostswere to put themselves into his exact shape,and he stood amongst them, there is somethingthat would tell me how to point him out. If youburied him fifty feet deep, and took me acrosshis grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn'ta mark above it, that he lay buried there?'

The man seemed to say this, with such dreadfulhatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, andstarted up.

Good Heaven! what was that, which sent theblood tingling to his heart, and deprived him ofhis voice, and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—soclose, that he could have almost touched himbefore he started back: with his eyes peeringinto the room, and meeting his: there stood theJew! And beside him, white with rage or fear,or both, were the scowling features of the manwho had accosted him in the inn-yard.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, beforehis eyes; and they were gone. But they had rec-ognised him, and he them; and their look wasas firmly impressed upon his memory, as if ithad been deeply carved in stone, and set beforehim from his birth. He stood transfixed for amoment; then, leaping from the window intothe garden, called loudly for help.

CHAPTER XXXV

CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORYRESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE;AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IM-PORTANCE BETWEENHARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE

When the inmates of the house, attracted byOliver's cries, hurried to the spot from whichthey proceeded, they found him, pale and agi-tated, pointing in the direction of the meadowsbehind the house, and scarcely able to articu-late the words, 'The Jew! the Jew!'

Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend whatthis outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whoseperceptions were something quicker, and whohad heard Oliver's history from his mother,understood it at once.

'What direction did he take?' he asked, catchingup a heavy stick which was standing in a cor-ner.

'That,' replied Oliver, pointing out the coursethe man had taken; 'I missed them in an in-stant.'

'Then, they are in the ditch!' said Harry. 'Fol-low! And keep as near me, as you can.' So say-ing, he sprang over the hedge, and darted offwith a speed which rendered it matter of ex-ceeding difficulty for the others to keep nearhim.

Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliverfollowed too; and in the course of a minute ortwo, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking,and just then returned, tumbled over the hedgeafter them, and picking himself up with moreagility than he could have been supposed topossess, struck into the same course at no con-

temptible speed, shouting all the while, mostprodigiously, to know what was the matter.

On they all went; nor stopped they once tobreathe, until the leader, striking off into anangle of the field indicated by Oliver, began tosearch, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoin-ing; which afforded time for the remainder ofthe party to come up; and for Oliver to com-municate to Mr. Losberne the circumstancesthat had led to so vigorous a pursuit.

The search was all in vain. There were not eventhe traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. Theystood now, on the summit of a little hill, com-manding the open fields in every direction forthree or four miles. There was the village in thehollow on the left; but, in order to gain that,after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out,the men must have made a circuit of openground, which it was impossible they couldhave accomplished in so short a time. A thickwood skirted the meadow-land in another di-

rection; but they could not have gained thatcovert for the same reason.

'It must have been a dream, Oliver,' said HarryMaylie.

'Oh no, indeed, sir,' replied Oliver, shudderingat the very recollection of the old wretch'scountenance; 'I saw him too plainly for that. Isaw them both, as plainly as I see you now.'

'Who was the other?' inquired Harry and Mr.Losberne, together.

'The very same man I told you of, who came sosuddenly upon me at the inn,' said Oliver. 'Wehad our eyes fixed full upon each other; and Icould swear to him.'

'They took this way?' demanded Harry: 'areyou sure?'

'As I am that the men were at the window,' re-plied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the

hedge which divided the cottage-garden fromthe meadow. 'The tall man leaped over, justthere; and the Jew, running a few paces to theright, crept through that gap.'

The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnestface, as he spoke, and looking from him to eachother, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy ofwhat he said. Still, in no direction were thereany appearances of the trampling of men inhurried flight. The grass was long; but it wastrodden down nowhere, save where their ownfeet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of theditches were of damp clay; but in no one placecould they discern the print of men's shoes, orthe slightest mark which would indicate thatany feet had pressed the ground for hours be-fore.

'This is strange!' said Harry.

'Strange?' echoed the doctor. 'Blathers and Duff,themselves, could make nothing of it.'

Notwithstanding the evidently useless natureof their search, they did not desist until thecoming on of night rendered its further prose-cution hopeless; and even then, they gave it upwith reluctance. Giles was dispatched to thedifferent ale-houses in the village, furnishedwith the best description Oliver could give ofthe appearance and dress of the strangers. Ofthese, the Jew was, at all events, sufficientlyremarkable to be remembered, supposing hehad been seen drinking, or loitering about; butGiles returned without any intelligence, calcu-lated to dispel or lessen the mystery.

On the next day, fresh search was made, andthe inquiries renewed; but with no better suc-cess. On the day following, Oliver and Mr.Maylie repaired to the market-town, in thehope of seeing or hearing something of the menthere; but this effort was equally fruitless. Aftera few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as

most affairs are, when wonder, having no freshfood to support it, dies away of itself.

Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. Shehad left her room: was able to go out; and mix-ing once more with the family, carried joy intothe hearts of all.

But, although this happy change had a visibleeffect on the little circle; and although cheerfulvoices and merry laughter were once moreheard in the cottage; there was at times, an un-wonted restraint upon some there: even uponRose herself: which Oliver could not fail to re-mark. Mrs. Maylie and her son were often clos-eted together for a long time; and more thanonce Rose appeared with traces of tears uponher face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day forhis departure to Chertsey, these symptoms in-creased; and it became evident that somethingwas in progress which affected the peace of theyoung lady, and of somebody else besides.

At length, one morning, when Rose was alonein the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered;and, with some hesitation, begged permissionto speak with her for a few moments.

'A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,' said theyoung man, drawing his chair towards her.'What I shall have to say, has already presenteditself to your mind; the most cherished hopes ofmy heart are not unknown to you, though frommy lips you have not heard them stated.'

Rose had been very pale from the moment ofhis entrance; but that might have been the ef-fect of her recent illness. She merely bowed;and bending over some plants that stood near,waited in silence for him to proceed.

'I—I—ought to have left here, before,' saidHarry.

'You should, indeed,' replied Rose. 'Forgive mefor saying so, but I wish you had.'

'I was brought here, by the most dreadful andagonising of all apprehensions,' said the youngman; 'the fear of losing the one dear being onwhom my every wish and hope are fixed. Youhad been dying; trembling between earth andheaven. We know that when the young, thebeautiful, and good, are visited with sickness,their pure spirits insensibly turn towards theirbright home of lasting rest; we know, Heavenhelp us! that the best and fairest of our kind,too often fade in blooming.'

There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl,as these words were spoken; and when one fellupon the flower over which she bent, and glis-tened brightly in its cup, making it more beau-tiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of herfresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally,with the loveliest things in nature.

'A creature,' continued the young man, pas-sionately, 'a creature as fair and innocent ofguile as one of God's own angels, fluttered be-

tween life and death. Oh! who could hope,when the distant world to which she was akin,half opened to her view, that she would returnto the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose, Rose,to know that you were passing away like somesoft shadow, which a light from above, castsupon the earth; to have no hope that you wouldbe spared to those who linger here; hardly toknow a reason why you should be; to feel thatyou belonged to that bright sphere whither somany of the fairest and the best have wingedtheir early flight; and yet to pray, amid all theseconsolations, that you might be restored tothose who loved you—these were distractionsalmost too great to bear. They were mine, byday and night; and with them, came such arushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions,and selfish regrets, lest you should die, andnever know how devotedly I loved you, as al-most bore down sense and reason in its course.You recovered. Day by day, and almost hourby hour, some drop of health came back, and

mingling with the spent and feeble stream oflife which circulated languidly within you,swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. Ihave watched you change almost from death,to life, with eyes that turned blind with theireagerness and deep affection. Do not tell methat you wish I had lost this; for it has softenedmy heart to all mankind.'

'I did not mean that,' said Rose, weeping; 'I onlywish you had left here, that you might haveturned to high and noble pursuits again; topursuits well worthy of you.'

'There is no pursuit more worthy of me: moreworthy of the highest nature that exists: thanthe struggle to win such a heart as yours,' saidthe young man, taking her hand. 'Rose, myown dear Rose! For years—for years—I haveloved you; hoping to win my way to fame, andthen come proudly home and tell you it hadbeen pursued only for you to share; thinking, inmy daydreams, how I would remind you, in

that happy moment, of the many silent tokens Ihad given of a boy's attachment, and claimyour hand, as in redemption of some old mutecontract that had been sealed between us! Thattime has not arrived; but here, with not famewon, and no young vision realised, I offer youthe heart so long your own, and stake my allupon the words with which you greet the offer.'

'Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.'said Rose, mastering the emotions by which shewas agitated. 'As you believe that I am not in-sensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.'

'It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is,dear Rose?'

'It is,' replied Rose, 'that you must endeavour toforget me; not as your old and dearly-attachedcompanion, for that would wound me deeply;but, as the object of your love. Look into theworld; think how many hearts you would beproud to gain, are there. Confide some other

passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest,warmest, and most faithful friend you have.'

There was a pause, during which, Rose, whohad covered her face with one hand, gave freevent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.

'And your reasons, Rose,' he said, at length, in alow voice; 'your reasons for this decision?'

'You have a right to know them,' rejoined Rose.'You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It isa duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike toothers, and to myself.'

'To yourself?'

'Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friend-less, portionless, girl, with a blight upon myname, should not give your friends reason tosuspect that I had sordidly yielded to your firstpassion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all yourhopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours,

to prevent you from opposing, in the warmthof your generous nature, this great obstacle toyour progress in the world.'

'If your inclinations chime with your sense ofduty—' Harry began.

'They do not,' replied Rose, colouring deeply.

'Then you return my love?' said Harry. 'Say butthat, dear Rose; say but that; and soften thebitterness of this hard disappointment!'

'If I could have done so, without doing heavywrong to him I loved,' rejoined Rose, 'I couldhave—'

'Have received this declaration very differ-ently?' said Harry. 'Do not conceal that fromme, at least, Rose.'

'I could,' said Rose. 'Stay!' she added, disengag-ing her hand, 'why should we prolong thispainful interview? Most painful to me, and yet

productive of lasting happiness, notwithstand-ing; for it will be happiness to know that I onceheld the high place in your regard which I nowoccupy, and every triumph you achieve in lifewill animate me with new fortitude and firm-ness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day,we meet no more; but in other relations thanthose in which this conversation have placedus, we may be long and happily entwined; andmay every blessing that the prayers of a trueand earnest heart can call down from thesource of all truth and sincerity, cheer andprosper you!'

'Another word, Rose,' said Harry. 'Your reasonin your own words. From your own lips, let mehear it!'

'The prospect before you,' answered Rose,firmly, 'is a brilliant one. All the honours towhich great talents and powerful connectionscan help men in public life, are in store for you.But those connections are proud; and I will

neither mingle with such as may hold in scornthe mother who gave me life; nor bring dis-grace or failure on the son of her who has sowell supplied that mother's place. In a word,'said the young lady, turning away, as her tem-porary firmness forsook her, 'there is a stainupon my name, which the world visits on inno-cent heads. I will carry it into no blood but myown; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.'

'One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! onemore!' cried Harry, throwing himself beforeher. 'If I had been less—less fortunate, theworld would call it—if some obscure andpeaceful life had been my destiny—if I hadbeen poor, sick, helpless—would you haveturned from me then? Or has my probable ad-vancement to riches and honour, given thisscruple birth?'

'Do not press me to reply,' answered Rose. 'Thequestion does not arise, and never will. It isunfair, almost unkind, to urge it.'

'If your answer be what I almost dare to hope itis,' retorted Harry, 'it will shed a gleam of hap-piness upon my lonely way, and light the pathbefore me. It is not an idle thing to do so much,by the utterance of a few brief words, for onewho loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in thename of my ardent and enduring attachment;in the name of all I have suffered for you, andall you doom me to undergo; answer me thisone question!'

'Then, if your lot had been differently cast,' re-joined Rose; 'if you had been even a little, butnot so far, above me; if I could have been a helpand comfort to you in any humble scene ofpeace and retirement, and not a blot and draw-back in ambitious and distinguished crowds; Ishould have been spared this trial. I have everyreason to be happy, very happy, now; but then,Harry, I own I should have been happier.'

Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as agirl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose,

while making this avowal; but they broughttears with them, as old hopes will when theycome back withered; and they relieved her.

'I cannot help this weakness, and it makes mypurpose stronger,' said Rose, extending herhand. 'I must leave you now, indeed.'

'I ask one promise,' said Harry. 'Once, and onlyonce more,—say within a year, but it may bemuch sooner,—I may speak to you again onthis subject, for the last time.'

'Not to press me to alter my right determina-tion,' replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; 'itwill be useless.'

'No,' said Harry; 'to hear you repeat it, if youwill—finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet,whatever of station of fortune I may possess;and if you still adhere to your present resolu-tion, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.'

'Then let it be so,' rejoined Rose; 'it is but onepang the more, and by that time I may be en-abled to bear it better.'

She extended her hand again. But the youngman caught her to his bosom; and imprintingone kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurriedfrom the room.

CHAPTER XXXVI

IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY AP-PEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCEIN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READNOTWITHSTANDING,AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEYTO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOWWHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES

'And so you are resolved to be my travellingcompanion this morning; eh?' said the doctor,as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at thebreakfast-table. 'Why, you are not in the samemind or intention two half-hours together!'

'You will tell me a different tale one of thesedays,' said Harry, colouring without any per-ceptible reason.

'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' repliedMr. Losberne; 'though I confess I don't think Ishall. But yesterday morning you had made up

your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and toaccompany your mother, like a dutiful son, tothe sea-side. Before noon, you announce thatyou are going to do me the honour of accom-panying me as far as I go, on your road to Lon-don. And at night, you urge me, with greatmystery, to start before the ladies are stirring;the consequence of which is, that young Oliverhere is pinned down to his breakfast when heought to be ranging the meadows after botani-cal phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it,Oliver?'

'I should have been very sorry not to have beenat home when you and Mr. Maylie went away,sir,' rejoined Oliver.

'That's a fine fellow,' said the doctor; 'you shallcome and see me when you return. But, tospeak seriously, Harry; has any communicationfrom the great nobs produced this suddenanxiety on your part to be gone?'

'The great nobs,' replied Harry, 'under whichdesignation, I presume, you include my moststately uncle, have not communicated with meat all, since I have been here; nor, at this time ofthe year, is it likely that anything would occurto render necessary my immediate attendanceamong them.'

'Well,' said the doctor, 'you are a queer fellow.But of course they will get you into parliamentat the election before Christmas, and thesesudden shiftings and changes are no badpreparation for political life. There's somethingin that. Good training is always desirable,whether the race be for place, cup, or sweep-stakes.'

Harry Maylie looked as if he could have fol-lowed up this short dialogue by one or tworemarks that would have staggered the doctornot a little; but he contented himself with say-ing, 'We shall see,' and pursued the subject nofarther. The post-chaise drove up to the door

shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for theluggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see itpacked.

'Oliver,' said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, 'letme speak a word with you.'

Oliver walked into the window-recess to whichMr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised atthe mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits,which his whole behaviour displayed.

'You can write well now?' said Harry, layinghis hand upon his arm.

'I hope so, sir,' replied Oliver.

'I shall not be at home again, perhaps for sometime; I wish you would write to me—say once afort-night: every alternate Monday: to the Gen-eral Post Office in London. Will you?'

'Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,' ex-claimed Oliver, greatly delighted with thecommission.

'I should like to know how—how my motherand Miss Maylie are,' said the young man; 'andyou can fill up a sheet by telling me what walksyou take, and what you talk about, andwhether she—they, I mean—seem happy andquite well. You understand me?'

'Oh! quite, sir, quite,' replied Oliver.

'I would rather you did not mention it to them,'said Harry, hurrying over his words; 'because itmight make my mother anxious to write to meoftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Letit be a secret between you and me; and mindyou tell me everything! I depend upon you.'

Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense ofhis importance, faithfully promised to be secretand explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie

took leave of him, with many assurances of hisregard and protection.

The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it hadbeen arranged, should be left behind) held thedoor open in his hand; and the women-servantswere in the garden, looking on. Harry cast oneslight glance at the latticed window, andjumped into the carriage.

'Drive on!' he cried, 'hard, fast, full gallop!Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me,to-day.'

'Halloa!' cried the doctor, letting down the frontglass in a great hurry, and shouting to the pos-tillion; 'something very short of flying will keeppace with me. Do you hear?'

Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered itsnoise inaudible, and its rapid progress onlyperceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound itsway along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of

dust: now wholly disappearing, and now be-coming visible again, as intervening objects, orthe intricacies of the way, permitted. It was notuntil even the dusty cloud was no longer to beseen, that the gazers dispersed.

And there was one looker-on, who remainedwith eyes fixed upon the spot where the car-riage had disappeared, long after it was manymiles away; for, behind the white curtain whichhad shrouded her from view when Harryraised his eyes towards the window, sat Roseherself.

'He seems in high spirits and happy,' she said,at length. 'I feared for a time he might be oth-erwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.'

Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; butthose which coursed down Rose's face, as shesat pensively at the window, still gazing in thesame direction, seemed to tell more of sorrowthan of joy.

CHAPTER XXXVII

IN WHICH THE READER MAY PER-CEIVE A CONTRAST,NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIALCASES

Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, withhis eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate,whence, as it was summer time, no brightergleam proceeded, than the reflection of certainsickly rays of the sun, which were sent backfrom its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he oc-casionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought;and, as the heedless insects hovered round thegaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave adeep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow over-spread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was medi-

tating; it might be that the insects brought tomind, some painful passage in his own pastlife.

Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thingcalculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy inthe bosom of a spectator. There were not want-ing other appearances, and those closely con-nected with his own person, which announcedthat a great change had taken place in the posi-tion of his affairs. The laced coat, and thecocked hat; where were they? He still woreknee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on hisnether limbs; but they were not the breeches.The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respectlike the coat, but, oh how different! The mightycocked hat was replaced by a modest roundone. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.

There are some promotions in life, which, in-dependent of the more substantial rewardsthey offer, require peculiar value and dignityfrom the coats and waistcoats connected with

them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishophis silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; abeadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of hisapron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; whatare they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and evenholiness too, sometimes, are more questions ofcoat and waistcoat than some people imagine.

Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and wasmaster of the workhouse. Another beadle hadcome into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.

'And to-morrow two months it was done!' saidMr. Bumble, with a sigh. 'It seems a age.'

Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had con-centrated a whole existence of happiness intothe short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.

'I sold myself,' said Mr. Bumble, pursuing thesame train of relection, 'for six teaspoons, a pair

of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a smallquantity of second-hand furniture, and twentypound in money. I went very reasonable.Cheap, dirt cheap!'

'Cheap!' cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble's ear:'you would have been dear at any price; anddear enough I paid for you, Lord above knowsthat!'

Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the faceof his interesting consort, who, imperfectlycomprehending the few words she had over-heard of his complaint, had hazarded the fore-going remark at a venture.

'Mrs. Bumble, ma'am!' said Mr. Bumble, with asentimental sternness.

'Well!' cried the lady.

'Have the goodness to look at me,' said Mr.Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her. (If she stands

such a eye as that,' said Mr. Bumble to himself,'she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knewto fail with paupers. If it fails with her, mypower is gone.')

Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eyebe sufficient to quell paupers, who, beinglightly fed, are in no very high condition; orwhether the late Mrs. Corney was particularlyproof against eagle glances; are matters of opin-ion. The matter of fact, is, that the matron wasin no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble's scowl,but, on the contrary, treated it with great dis-dain, and even raised a laugh thereat, whichsounded as though it were genuine.

On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr.Bumble looked, first incredulous, and after-wards amazed. He then relapsed into his for-mer state; nor did he rouse himself until hisattention was again awakened by the voice ofhis partner.

'Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?'inquired Mrs. Bumble.

'I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper,ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble; 'and although Iwas not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze,laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; suchbeing my prerogative.'

'Your prerogative!' sneered Mrs. Bumble, withineffable contempt.

'I said the word, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Theprerogative of a man is to command.'

'And what's the prerogative of a woman, in thename of Goodness?' cried the relict of Mr. Cor-ney deceased.

'To obey, ma'am,' thundered Mr. Bumble. 'Yourlate unfortunate husband should have taught ityou; and then, perhaps, he might have beenalive now. I wish he was, poor man!'

Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the deci-sive moment had now arrived, and that a blowstruck for the mastership on one side or other,must necessarily be final and conclusive, nosooner heard this allusion to the dead andgone, than she dropped into a chair, and with aloud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears.

But, tears were not the things to find their wayto Mr. Bumble's soul; his heart was waterproof.Like washable beaver hats that improve withrain, his nerves were rendered stouter andmore vigorous, by showers of tears, which,being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit ad-missions of his own power, pleased and exaltedhim. He eyed his good lady with looks of greatsatisfaction, and begged, in an encouragingmanner, that she should cry her hardest: theexercise being looked upon, by the faculty, asstrongly conducive to health.

'It opens the lungs, washes the countenance,exercises the eyes, and softens down the tem-per,' said Mr. Bumble. 'So cry away.'

As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr.Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting iton, rather rakishly, on one side, as a manmight, who felt he had asserted his superiorityin a becoming manner, thrust his hands into hispockets, and sauntered towards the door, withmuch ease and waggishness depicted in hiswhole appearance.

Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears,because they were less troublesome than amanual assault; but, she was quite prepared tomake trial of the latter mode of proceeding, asMr. Bumble was not long in discovering.

The first proof he experienced of the fact, wasconveyed in a hollow sound, immediately suc-ceeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to theopposite end of the room. This preliminary

proceeding laying bare his head, the expertlady, clasping him tightly round the throat withone hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealtwith singular vigour and dexterity) upon itwith the other. This done, she created a littlevariety by scratching his face, and tearing hishair; and, having, by this time, inflicted asmuch punishment as she deemed necessary forthe offence, she pushed him over a chair, whichwas luckily well situated for the purpose: anddefied him to talk about his prerogative again,if he dared.

'Get up!' said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of com-mand. 'And take yourself away from here,unless you want me to do something desper-ate.'

Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful counte-nance: wondering much what something des-perate might be. Picking up his hat, he lookedtowards the door.

'Are you going?' demanded Mrs. Bumble.

'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' rejoined Mr.Bumble, making a quicker motion towards thedoor. 'I didn't intend to—I'm going, my dear!You are so very violent, that really I—'

At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastilyforward to replace the carpet, which had beenkicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immedi-ately darted out of the room, without bestow-ing another thought on his unfinished sentence:leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possessionof the field.

Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, andfairly beaten. He had a decided propensity forbullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasurefrom the exercise of petty cruelty; and, conse-quently, was (it is needless to say) a coward.This is by no means a disparagement to hischaracter; for many official personages, whoare held in high respect and admiration, are the

victims of similar infirmities. The remark ismade, indeed, rather in his favour than other-wise, and with a view of impressing the readerwith a just sense of his qualifications for office.

But, the measure of his degradation was not yetfull. After making a tour of the house, andthinking, for the first time, that the poor-lawsreally were too hard on people; and that menwho ran away from their wives, leaving themchargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to bevisited with no punishment at all, but ratherrewarded as meritorious individuals who hadsuffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a roomwhere some of the female paupers were usuallyemployed in washing the parish linen: whenthe sound of voices in conversation, now pro-ceeded.

'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all hisnative dignity. 'These women at least shall con-tinue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo

there! What do you mean by this noise, youhussies?'

With these words, Mr. Bumble opened thedoor, and walked in with a very fierce and an-gry manner: which was at once exchanged for amost humiliated and cowering air, as his eyesunexpectedly rested on the form of his ladywife.

'My dear,' said Mr. Bumble, 'I didn't know youwere here.'

'Didn't know I was here!' repeated Mrs. Bum-ble. 'What do you do here?'

'I thought they were talking rather too much tobe doing their work properly, my dear,' repliedMr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a coupleof old women at the wash-tub, who were com-paring notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility.

'You thought they were talking too much?' saidMrs. Bumble. 'What business is it of yours?'

'Why, my dear—' urged Mr. Bumble submis-sively.

'What business is it of yours?' demanded Mrs.Bumble, again.

'It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,'submitted Mr. Bumble; 'but I thought youmightn't be in the way just then.'

'I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,' returned hislady. 'We don't want any of your interference.You're a great deal too fond of poking yournose into things that don't concern you, makingeverybody in the house laugh, the momentyour back is turned, and making yourself looklike a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!'

Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings,the delight of the two old paupers, who were

tittering together most rapturously, hesitatedfor an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patiencebrooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door,ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of re-ceiving the contents upon his portly person.

What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked deject-edly round, and slunk away; and, as he reachedthe door, the titterings of the paupers brokeinto a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. Itwanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes;he had lost caste and station before the verypaupers; he had fallen from all the height andpomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of themost snubbed hen-peckery.

'All in two months!' said Mr. Bumble, filledwith dismal thoughts. 'Two months! No morethan two months ago, I was not only my ownmaster, but everybody else's, so far as the poro-chial workhouse was concerned, and now!—'

It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears ofthe boy who opened the gate for him (for hehad reached the portal in his reverie); andwalked, distractedly, into the street.

He walked up one street, and down another,until exercise had abated the first passion of hisgrief; and then the revulsion of feeling madehim thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in aby-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from ahasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, saveby one solitary customer. It began to rain, heav-ily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr.Bumble stepped in; and ordering something todrink, as he passed the bar, entered the apart-ment into which he had looked from the street.

The man who was seated there, was tall anddark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air ofa stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggard-ness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils onhis dress, to have travelled some distance. He

eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, butscarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowl-edgment of his salutation.

Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two;supposing even that the stranger had beenmore familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water insilence, and read the paper with great show ofpomp and circumstance.

It so happened, however: as it will happen veryoften, when men fall into company under suchcircumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every nowand then, a powerful inducement, which hecould not resist, to steal a look at the stranger:and that whenever he did so, he withdrew hiseyes, in some confusion, to find that thestranger was at that moment stealing a look athim. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhancedby the very remarkable expression of thestranger's eye, which was keen and bright, butshadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion,

unlike anything he had ever observed before,and repulsive to behold.

When they had encountered each other's glanceseveral times in this way, the stranger, in aharsh, deep voice, broke silence.

'Were you looking for me,' he said, 'when youpeered in at the window?'

'Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr.—'Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he wascurious to know the stranger's name, andthought in his impatience, he might supply theblank.

'I see you were not,' said the stranger; an ex-pression of quiet sarcasm playing about hismouth; 'or you have known my name. Youdon't know it. I would recommend you not toask for it.'

'I meant no harm, young man,' observed Mr.Bumble, majestically.

'And have done none,' said the stranger.

Another silence succeeded this short dialogue:which was again broken by the stranger.

'I have seen you before, I think?' said he. 'Youwere differently dressed at that time, and I onlypassed you in the street, but I should know youagain. You were beadle here, once; were younot?'

'I was,' said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise;'porochial beadle.'

'Just so,' rejoined the other, nodding his head.'It was in that character I saw you. What areyou now?'

'Master of the workhouse,' rejoined Mr. Bum-ble, slowly and impressively, to check any un-

due familiarity the stranger might otherwiseassume. 'Master of the workhouse, young man!'

'You have the same eye to your own interest,that you always had, I doubt not?' resumed thestranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble'seyes, as he raised them in astonishment at thequestion.

'Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I knowyou pretty well, you see.'

'I suppose, a married man,' replied Mr. Bumble,shading his eyes with his hand, and surveyingthe stranger, from head to foot, in evident per-plexity, 'is not more averse to turning an honestpenny when he can, than a single one. Poro-chial officers are not so well paid that they canafford to refuse any little extra fee, when itcomes to them in a civil and proper manner.'

The stranger smiled, and nodded his headagain: as much to say, he had not mistaken hisman; then rang the bell.

'Fill this glass again,' he said, handing Mr.Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. 'Let itbe strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?'

'Not too strong,' replied Mr. Bumble, with adelicate cough.

'You understand what that means, landlord!'said the stranger, drily.

The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly af-terwards returned with a steaming jorum: ofwhich, the first gulp brought the water into Mr.Bumble's eyes.

'Now listen to me,' said the stranger, after clos-ing the door and window. 'I came down to thisplace, to-day, to find you out; and, by one ofthose chances which the devil throws in the

way of his friends sometimes, you walked intothe very room I was sitting in, while you wereuppermost in my mind. I want some informa-tion from you. I don't ask you to give it fornothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to beginwith.'

As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereignsacross the table to his companion, carefully, asthough unwilling that the chinking of moneyshould be heard without. When Mr. Bumblehad scrupulously examined the coins, to seethat they were genuine, and had put them up,with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket,he went on:

'Carry your memory back—let me see—twelveyears, last winter.'

'It's a long time,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Very good.I've done it.'

'The scene, the workhouse.'

'Good!'

'And the time, night.'

'Yes.'

'And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was,in which miserable drabs brought forth the lifeand health so often denied to themselves—gavebirth to puling children for the parish to rear;and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!'

'The lying-in room, I suppose?' said Mr. Bum-ble, not quite following the stranger's exciteddescription.

'Yes,' said the stranger. 'A boy was born there.'

'A many boys,' observed Mr. Bumble, shakinghis head, despondingly.

'A murrain on the young devils!' cried thestranger; 'I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to

a coffin-maker—I wish he had made his coffin,and screwed his body in it—and who after-wards ran away to London, as it was supposed.

'Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!' said Mr.Bumble; 'I remember him, of course. Therewasn't a obstinater young rascal—'

'It's not of him I want to hear; I've heardenough of him,' said the stranger, stopping Mr.Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subjectof poor Oliver's vices. 'It's of a woman; the hagthat nursed his mother. Where is she?'

'Where is she?' said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. 'It would behard to tell. There's no midwifery there, which-ever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's outof employment, anyway.'

'What do you mean?' demanded the stranger,sternly.

'That she died last winter,' rejoined Mr. Bum-ble.

The man looked fixedly at him when he hadgiven this information, and although he did notwithdraw his eyes for some time afterwards,his gaze gradually became vacant and ab-stracted, and he seemed lost in thought. Forsome time, he appeared doubtful whether heought to be relieved or disappointed by theintelligence; but at length he breathed morefreely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed thatit was no great matter. With that he rose, as if todepart.

But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he atonce saw that an opportunity was opened, forthe lucrative disposal of some secret in the pos-session of his better half. He well rememberedthe night of old Sally's death, which the occur-rences of that day had given him good reasonto recollect, as the occasion on which he hadproposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that

lady had never confided to him the disclosureof which she had been the solitary witness, hehad heard enough to know that it related tosomething that had occurred in the oldwoman's attendance, as workhouse nurse,upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastilycalling this circumstance to mind, he informedthe stranger, with an air of mystery, that onewoman had been closeted with the old harri-dan shortly before she died; and that she could,as he had reason to believe, throw some lighton the subject of his inquiry.

'How can I find her?' said the stranger, thrownoff his guard; and plainly showing that all hisfears (whatever they were) were aroused afreshby the intelligence.

'Only through me,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.

'When?' cried the stranger, hastily.

'To-morrow,' rejoined Bumble.

'At nine in the evening,' said the stranger, pro-ducing a scrap of paper, and writing downupon it, an obscure address by the water-side,in characters that betrayed his agitation; 'at ninein the evening, bring her to me there. I needn'ttell you to be secret. It's your interest.'

With these words, he led the way to the door,after stopping to pay for the liquor that hadbeen drunk. Shortly remarking that their roadswere different, he departed, without moreceremony than an emphatic repetition of thehour of appointment for the following night.

On glancing at the address, the parochial func-tionary observed that it contained no name.The stranger had not gone far, so he made afterhim to ask it.

'What do you want?' cried the man, turningquickly round, as Bumble touched him on thearm. 'Following me?'

'Only to ask a question,' said the other, pointingto the scrap of paper. 'What name am I to askfor?'

'Monks!' rejoined the man; and strode hastily,away.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHATPASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUM-BLE,AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTUR-NAL INTERVIEW

It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening.The clouds, which had been threatening allday, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass ofvapour, already yielded large drops of rain,and seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm,

when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of themain street of the town, directed their coursetowards a scattered little colony of ruinoushouses, distant from it some mile and a-half, orthereabouts, and erected on a low unwhole-some swamp, bordering upon the river.

They were both wrapped in old and shabbyouter garments, which might, perhaps, servethe double purpose of protecting their personsfrom the rain, and sheltering them from obser-vation. The husband carried a lantern, fromwhich, however, no light yet shone; andtrudged on, a few paces in front, as though—the way being dirty—to give his wife the bene-fit of treading in his heavy footprints. Theywent on, in profound silence; every now andthen, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turnedhis head as if to make sure that his helpmatewas following; then, discovering that she wasclose at his heels, he mended his rate of walk-

ing, and proceeded, at a considerable increaseof speed, towards their place of destination.

This was far from being a place of doubtfulcharacter; for it had long been known as theresidence of none but low ruffians, who, undervarious pretences of living by their labour, sub-sisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It was acollection of mere hovels: some, hastily builtwith loose bricks: others, of old worm-eatenship-timber: jumbled together without any at-tempt at order or arrangement, and planted, forthe most part, within a few feet of the river'sbank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the mud,and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirtedit: and here and there an oar or coil of rope:appeared, at first, to indicate that the inhabi-tants of these miserable cottages pursued someavocation on the river; but a glance at the shat-tered and useless condition of the articles thusdisplayed, would have led a passer-by, withoutmuch difficulty, to the conjecture that they

were disposed there, rather for the preservationof appearances, than with any view to theirbeing actually employed.

In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirtingthe river, which its upper stories overhung;stood a large building, formerly used as amanufactory of some kind. It had, in its day,probably furnished employment to the inhabi-tants of the surrounding tenements. But it hadlong since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, andthe action of the damp, had weakened and rot-ted the piles on which it stood; and a consider-able portion of the building had already sunkdown into the water; while the remainder, tot-tering and bending over the dark stream,seemed to wait a favourable opportunity offollowing its old companion, and involvingitself in the same fate.

It was before this ruinous building that theworthy couple paused, as the first peal of dis-

tant thunder reverberated in the air, and therain commenced pouring violently down.

'The place should be somewhere here,' saidBumble, consulting a scrap of paper he held inhis hand.

'Halloa there!' cried a voice from above.

Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised hishead and descried a man looking out of a door,breast-high, on the second story.

'Stand still, a minute,' cried the voice; 'I'll bewith you directly.' With which the head disap-peared, and the door closed.

'Is that the man?' asked Mr. Bumble's goodlady.

Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.

'Then, mind what I told you,' said the matron:'and be careful to say as little as you can, oryou'll betray us at once.'

Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building withvery rueful looks, was apparently about to ex-press some doubts relative to the advisability ofproceeding any further with the enterprise justthen, when he was prevented by the appear-ance of Monks: who opened a small door, nearwhich they stood, and beckoned them inwards.

'Come in!' he cried impatiently, stamping hisfoot upon the ground. 'Don't keep me here!'

The woman, who had hesitated at first, walkedboldly in, without any other invitation. Mr.Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag be-hind, followed: obviously very ill at ease andwith scarcely any of that remarkable dignitywhich was usually his chief characteristic.

'What the devil made you stand lingering there,in the wet?' said Monks, turning round, andaddressing Bumble, after he had bolted thedoor behind them.

'We—we were only cooling ourselves,' stam-mered Bumble, looking apprehensively abouthim.

'Cooling yourselves!' retorted Monks. 'Not allthe rain that ever fell, or ever will fall, will putas much of hell's fire out, as a man can carryabout with him. You won't cool yourself soeasily; don't think it!'

With this agreeable speech, Monks turned shortupon the matron, and bent his gaze upon her,till even she, who was not easily cowed, wasfain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them to-wards the ground.

'This is the woman, is it?' demanded Monks.

'Hem! That is the woman,' replied Mr. Bumble,mindful of his wife's caution.

'You think women never can keep secrets, Isuppose?' said the matron, interposing, andreturning, as she spoke, the searching look ofMonks.

'I know they will always keep one till it's foundout,' said Monks.

'And what may that be?' asked the matron.

'The loss of their own good name,' repliedMonks. 'So, by the same rule, if a woman's aparty to a secret that might hang or transporther, I'm not afraid of her telling it to anybody;not I! Do you understand, mistress?'

'No,' rejoined the matron, slightly colouring asshe spoke.

'Of course you don't!' said Monks. 'How shouldyou?'

Bestowing something half-way between a smileand a frown upon his two companions, andagain beckoning them to follow him, the manhastened across the apartment, which was ofconsiderable extent, but low in the roof. He waspreparing to ascend a steep staircase, or ratherladder, leading to another floor of warehousesabove: when a bright flash of lightningstreamed down the aperture, and a peal ofthunder followed, which shook the crazy build-ing to its centre.

'Hear it!' he cried, shrinking back. 'Hear it! Roll-ing and crashing on as if it echoed through athousand caverns where the devils were hidingfrom it. I hate the sound!'

He remained silent for a few moments; andthen, removing his hands suddenly from hisface, showed, to the unspeakable discomposureof Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted anddiscoloured.

'These fits come over me, now and then,' saidMonks, observing his alarm; 'and thundersometimes brings them on. Don't mind menow; it's all over for this once.'

Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder;and hastily closing the window-shutter of theroom into which it led, lowered a lantern whichhung at the end of a rope and pulley passedthrough one of the heavy beams in the ceiling:and which cast a dim light upon an old tableand three chairs that were placed beneath it.

'Now,' said Monks, when they had all threeseated themselves, 'the sooner we come to ourbusiness, the better for all. The woman knowwhat it is, does she?'

The question was addressed to Bumble; but hiswife anticipated the reply, by intimating thatshe was perfectly acquainted with it.

'He is right in saying that you were with thishag the night she died; and that she told yousomething—'

'About the mother of the boy you named,' re-plied the matron interrupting him. 'Yes.'

'The first question is, of what nature was hercommunication?' said Monks.

'That's the second,' observed the woman withmuch deliberation. 'The first is, what may thecommunication be worth?'

'Who the devil can tell that, without knowingof what kind it is?' asked Monks.

'Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,' an-swered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want forspirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantlytestify.

'Humph!' said Monks significantly, and with alook of eager inquiry; 'there may be money'sworth to get, eh?'

'Perhaps there may,' was the composed reply.

'Something that was taken from her,' saidMonks. 'Something that she wore. Somethingthat—'

'You had better bid,' interrupted Mrs. Bumble.'I have heard enough, already, to assure methat you are the man I ought to talk to.'

Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted byhis better half into any greater share of the se-cret than he had originally possessed, listenedto this dialogue with outstretched neck anddistended eyes: which he directed towards hiswife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised as-tonishment; increased, if possible, when thelatter sternly demanded, what sum was re-quired for the disclosure.

'What's it worth to you?' asked the woman, ascollectedly as before.

'It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,'replied Monks. 'Speak out, and let me knowwhich.'

'Add five pounds to the sum you have named;give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold,' saidthe woman; 'and I'll tell you all I know. Notbefore.'

'Five-and-twenty pounds!' exclaimed Monks,drawing back.

'I spoke as plainly as I could,' replied Mrs.Bumble. 'It's not a large sum, either.'

'Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may benothing when it's told!' cried Monks impa-tiently; 'and which has been lying dead fortwelve years past or more!'

'Such matters keep well, and, like good wine,often double their value in course of time,' an-swered the matron, still preserving the resoluteindifference she had assumed. 'As to lyingdead, there are those who will lie dead fortwelve thousand years to come, or twelve mil-lion, for anything you or I know, who will tellstrange tales at last!'

'What if I pay it for nothing?' asked Monks,hesitating.

'You can easily take it away again,' replied thematron. 'I am but a woman; alone here; andunprotected.'

'Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,'submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulouswith fear: 'I am here, my dear. And besides,'said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as hespoke, 'Mr. Monks is too much of a gentlemanto attempt any violence on porochial persons.Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man,

my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed,as I may say; bu he has heerd: I say I have nodoubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I ama very determined officer, with very uncom-mon strength, if I'm once roused. I only want alittle rousing; that's all.'

As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholyfeint of grasping his lantern with fierce deter-mination; and plainly showed, by the alarmedexpression of every feature, that he did want alittle rousing, and not a little, prior to makingany very warlike demonstration: unless, in-deed, against paupers, or other person or per-sons trained down for the purpose.

'You are a fool,' said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; 'andhad better hold your tongue.'

'He had better have cut it out, before he came, ifhe can't speak in a lower tone,' said Monks,grimly. 'So! He's your husband, eh?'

'He my husband!' tittered the matron, parryingthe question.

'I thought as much, when you came in,' re-joined Monks, marking the angry glance whichthe lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. 'Somuch the better; I have less hesitation in deal-ing with two people, when I find that there'sonly one will between them. I'm in earnest. Seehere!'

He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and pro-ducing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sov-ereigns on the table, and pushed them over tothe woman.

'Now,' he said, 'gather them up; and when thiscursed peal of thunder, which I feel is comingup to break over the house-top, is gone, let'shear your story.'

The thunder, which seemed in fact muchnearer, and to shiver and break almost over

their heads, having subsided, Monks, raisinghis face from the table, bent forward to listen towhat the woman should say. The faces of thethree nearly touched, as the two men leant overthe small table in their eagerness to hear, andthe woman also leant forward to render herwhisper audible. The sickly rays of the sus-pended lantern falling directly upon them, ag-gravated the paleness and anxiety of theircountenances: which, encircled by the deepestgloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the ex-treme.

'When this woman, that we called old Sally,died,' the matron began, 'she and I were alone.'

'Was there no one by?' asked Monks, in thesame hollow whisper; 'No sick wretch or idiotin some other bed? No one who could hear,and might, by possibility, understand?'

'Not a soul,' replied the woman; 'we werealone. I stood alone beside the body whendeath came over it.'

'Good,' said Monks, regarding her attentively.'Go on.'

'She spoke of a young creature,' resumed thematron, 'who had brought a child into theworld some years before; not merely in thesame room, but in the same bed, in which shethen lay dying.'

'Ay?' said Monks, with quivering lip, andglancing over his shoulder, 'Blood! How thingscome about!'

'The child was the one you named to him lastnight,' said the matron, nodding carelessly to-wards her husband; 'the mother this nurse hadrobbed.'

'In life?' asked Monks.

'In death,' replied the woman, with somethinglike a shudder. 'She stole from the corpse, whenit had hardly turned to one, that which thedead mother had prayed her, with her lastbreath, to keep for the infant's sake.'

'She sold it,' cried Monks, with desperate ea-gerness; 'did she sell it? Where? When? Towhom? How long before?'

'As she told me, with great difficulty, that shehad done this,' said the matron, 'she fell backand died.'

'Without saying more?' cried Monks, in a voicewhich, from its very suppression, seemed onlythe more furious. 'It's a lie! I'll not be playedwith. She said more. I'll tear the life out of youboth, but I'll know what it was.'

'She didn't utter another word,' said thewoman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr.Bumble was very far from being) by the strange

man's violence; 'but she clutched my gown,violently, with one hand, which was partlyclosed; and when I saw that she was dead, andso removed the hand by force, I found itclasped a scrap of dirty paper.'

'Which contained—' interposed Monks, stretch-ing forward.

'Nothing,' replied the woman; 'it was a pawn-broker's duplicate.'

'For what?' demanded Monks.

'In good time I'll tell you.' said the woman. 'Ijudge that she had kept the trinket, for sometime, in the hope of turning it to better account;and then had pawned it; and had saved orscraped together money to pay the pawnbro-ker's interest year by year, and prevent its run-ning out; so that if anything came of it, it couldstill be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and,as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper,

all worn and tattered, in her hand. The timewas out in two days; I thought somethingmight one day come of it too; and so redeemedthe pledge.'

'Where is it now?' asked Monks quickly.

'There,' replied the woman. And, as if glad to berelieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table asmall kid bag scarcely large enough for aFrench watch, which Monks pouncing upon,tore open with trembling hands. It contained alittle gold locket: in which were two locks ofhair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.

'It has the word "Agnes" engraved on the in-side,' said the woman.

'There is a blank left for the surname; and thenfollows the date; which is within a year beforethe child was born. I found out that.'

'And this is all?' said Monks, after a close andeager scrutiny of the contents of the littlepacket.

'All,' replied the woman.

Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he wereglad to find that the story was over, and nomention made of taking the five-and-twentypounds back again; and now he took courage towipe the perspiration which had been tricklingover his nose, unchecked, during the whole ofthe previous dialogue.

'I know nothing of the story, beyond what I canguess at,' said his wife addressing Monks, aftera short silence; 'and I want to know nothing; forit's safer not. But I may ask you two questions,may I?'

'You may ask,' said Monks, with some show ofsurprise; 'but whether I answer or not is an-other question.'

'—Which makes three,' observed Mr. Bumble,essaying a stroke of facetiousness.

'Is that what you expected to get from me?'demanded the matron.

'It is,' replied Monks. 'The other question?'

'What do you propose to do with it? Can it beused against me?'

'Never,' rejoined Monks; 'nor against me either.See here! But don't move a step forward, oryour life is not worth a bulrush.'

With these words, he suddenly wheeled thetable aside, and pulling an iron ring in theboarding, threw back a large trap-door whichopened close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and causedthat gentleman to retire several paces back-ward, with great precipitation.

'Look down,' said Monks, lowering the lanterninto the gulf. 'Don't fear me. I could have let

you down, quietly enough, when you wereseated over it, if that had been my game.'

Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to thebrink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelledby curiousity, ventured to do the same. Theturbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, wasrushing rapidly on below; and all other soundswere lost in the noise of its plashing and eddy-ing against the green and slimy piles. Therehad once been a water-mill beneath; the tidefoaming and chafing round the few rottenstakes, and fragments of machinery that yetremained, seemed to dart onward, with a newimpulse, when freed from the obstacles whichhad unavailingly attempted to stem its head-long course.

'If you flung a man's body down there, wherewould it be to-morrow morning?' said Monks,swinging the lantern to and fro in the darkwell.

'Twelve miles down the river, and cut to piecesbesides,' replied Bumble, recoiling at thethought.

Monks drew the little packet from his breast,where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it toa leaden weight, which had formed a part ofsome pulley, and was lying on the floor,dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, andtrue as a die; clove the water with a scarcelyaudible splash; and was gone.

The three looking into each other's faces,seemed to breathe more freely.

'There!' said Monks, closing the trap-door,which fell heavily back into its former position.'If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say itwill, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, andthat trash among it. We have nothing more tosay, and may break up our pleasant party.'

'By all means,' observed Mr. Bumble, with greatalacrity.

'You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, willyou?' said Monks, with a threatening look. 'Iam not afraid of your wife.'

'You may depend upon me, young man,' an-swered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself graduallytowards the ladder, with excessive politeness.'On everybody's account, young man; on myown, you know, Mr. Monks.'

'I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,' remarkedMonks. 'Light your lantern! And get away fromhere as fast as you can.'

It was fortunate that the conversation termi-nated at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who hadbowed himself to within six inches of the lad-der, would infallibly have pitched headlonginto the room below. He lighted his lanternfrom that which Monks had detached from the

rope, and now carried in his hand; and makingno effort to prolong the discourse, descended insilence, followed by his wife. Monks broughtup the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfyhimself that there were no other sounds to beheard than the beating of the rain without, andthe rushing of the water.

They traversed the lower room, slowly, andwith caution; for Monks started at everyshadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern afoot above the ground, walked not only withremarkable care, but with a marvellously lightstep for a gentleman of his figure: lookingnervously about him for hidden trap-doors.The gate at which they had entered, was softlyunfastened and opened by Monks; merely ex-changing a nod with their mysterious acquaint-ance, the married couple emerged into the wetand darkness outside.

They were no sooner gone, than Monks, whoappeared to entertain an invincible repugnance

to being left alone, called to a boy who hadbeen hidden somewhere below. Bidding himgo first, and bear the light, he returned to thechamber he had just quitted.

CHAPTER XXXIX

INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLECHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READERIS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWSHOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAIDTHEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER

On the evening following that upon which thethree worthies mentioned in the last chapter,disposed of their little matter of business astherein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakeningfrom a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquirywhat time of night it was.

The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded thisquestion, was not one of those he had tenanted,previous to the Chertsey expedition, althoughit was in the same quarter of the town, and wassituated at no great distance from his formerlodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirablea habitation as his old quarters: being a meanand badly-furnished apartment, of very limitedsize; lighted only by one small window in theshelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirtylane. Nor were there wanting other indicationsof the good gentleman's having gone down inthe world of late: for a great scarcity of furni-ture, and total absence of comfort, togetherwith the disappearance of all such small move-ables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a stateof extreme poverty; while the meagre and at-tenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself wouldhave fully confirmed these symptoms, if theyhad stood in any need of corroboration.

The housebreaker was lying on the bed,wrapped in his white great-coat, by way ofdressing-gown, and displaying a set of featuresin no degree improved by the cadaverous hueof illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap,and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. Thedog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his masterwith a wistful look, and now pricking his ears,and uttering a low growl as some noise in thestreet, or in the lower part of the house, at-tracted his attention. Seated by the window,busily engaged in patching an old waistcoatwhich formed a portion of the robber's ordi-nary dress, was a female: so pale and reducedwith watching and privation, that there wouldhave been considerable difficulty in recognisingher as the same Nancy who has already figuredin this tale, but for the voice in which she re-plied to Mr. Sikes's question.

'Not long gone seven,' said the girl. 'How doyou feel to-night, Bill?'

'As weak as water,' replied Mr. Sikes, with animprecation on his eyes and limbs. 'Here; lendus a hand, and let me get off this thunderingbed anyhow.'

Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper;for, as the girl raised him up and led him to achair, he muttered various curses on her awk-wardness, and struck her.

'Whining are you?' said Sikes. 'Come! Don'tstand snivelling there. If you can't do anythingbetter than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hearme?'

'I hear you,' replied the girl, turning her faceaside, and forcing a laugh. 'What fancy haveyou got in your head now?'

'Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?'growled Sikes, marking the tear which trem-bled in her eye. 'All the better for you, youhave.'

'Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hardupon me to-night, Bill,' said the girl, laying herhand upon his shoulder.

'No!' cried Mr. Sikes. 'Why not?'

'Such a number of nights,' said the girl, with atouch of woman's tenderness, which communi-cated something like sweetness of tone, even toher voice: 'such a number of nights as I've beenpatient with you, nursing and caring for you, asif you had been a child: and this the first thatI've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't haveserved me as you did just now, if you'd thoughtof that, would you? Come, come; say youwouldn't.'

'Well, then,' rejoined Mr. Sikes, 'I wouldn't.Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!'

'It's nothing,' said the girl, throwing herself intoa chair. 'Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soonbe over.'

'What'll be over?' demanded Mr. Sikes in a sav-age voice. 'What foolery are you up to, now,again? Get up and bustle about, and don't comeover me with your woman's nonsense.'

At any other time, this remonstrance, and thetone in which it was delivered, would have hadthe desired effect; but the girl being really weakand exhausted, dropped her head over the backof the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes couldget out a few of the appropriate oaths withwhich, on similar occasions, he was accus-tomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing,very well, what to do, in this uncommon emer-gency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usuallyof that violent kind which the patient fights andstruggles out of, without much assistance; Mr.Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding thatmode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called forassistance.

'What's the matter here, my dear?' said Fagin,looking in.

'Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?' repliedSikes impatiently. 'Don't stand chattering andgrinning at me!'

With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin has-tened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. JohnDawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), whohad followed his venerable friend into theroom, hastily deposited on the floor a bundlewith which he was laden; and snatching a bot-tle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates whocame close at his heels, uncorked it in a twin-kling with his teeth, and poured a portion of itscontents down the patient's throat: previouslytaking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes.

'Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows,Charley,' said Mr. Dawkins; 'and you slap herhands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts.'

These united restoratives, administered withgreat energy: especially that department con-signed to Master Bates, who appeared to con-

sider his share in the proceedings, a piece ofunexampled pleasantry: were not long in pro-ducing the desired effect. The girl graduallyrecovered her senses; and, staggering to a chairby the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow:leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers,in some astonishment at their unlooked-forappearance.

'Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?' heasked Fagin.

'No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil windsblow nobody any good; and I've brought some-thing good with me, that you'll be glad to see.Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and giveBill the little trifles that we spent all our moneyon, this morning.'

In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, theArtful untied this bundle, which was of largesize, and formed of an old table-cloth; andhanded the articles it contained, one by one, to

Charley Bates: who placed them on the table,with various encomiums on their rarity andexcellence.

'Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,' exclaimed that younggentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty;'sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs,Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth,and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half apound of seven and six-penny green, so pre-cious strong that if you mix it with biling water,it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; apound and a half of moist sugar that the nig-gers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up tositch a pitch of goodness,—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece ofdouble Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some ofthe richest sort you ever lushed!'

Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates pro-duced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr.Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a

wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle hecarried: which the invalid tossed down histhroat without a moment's hesitation.

'Ah!' said Fagin, rubbing his hands with greatsatisfaction. 'You'll do, Bill; you'll do now.'

'Do!' exclaimed Mr. Sikes; 'I might have beendone for, twenty times over, afore you'd havedone anything to help me. What do you meanby leaving a man in this state, three weeks andmore, you false-hearted wagabond?'

'Only hear him, boys!' said Fagin, shrugging hisshoulders. 'And us come to bring him all thesebeau-ti-ful things.'

'The things is well enough in their way,' ob-served Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glancedover the table; 'but what have you got to say foryourself, why you should leave me here, downin the mouth, health, blunt, and everythingelse; and take no more notice of me, all this

mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog.—Drivehim down, Charley!'

'I never see such a jolly dog as that,' cried Mas-ter Bates, doing as he was desired. 'Smelling thegrub like a old lady a going to market! He'dmake his fortun' on the stage that dog would,and rewive the drayma besides.'

'Hold your din,' cried Sikes, as the dog re-treated under the bed: still growling angrily.'What have you got to say for yourself, youwithered old fence, eh?'

'I was away from London, a week and more,my dear, on a plant,' replied the Jew.

'And what about the other fortnight?' de-manded Sikes. 'What about the other fortnightthat you've left me lying here, like a sick rat inhis hole?'

'I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long ex-planation before company; but I couldn't helpit, upon my honour.'

'Upon your what?' growled Sikes, with exces-sive disgust. 'Here! Cut me off a piece of thatpie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that outof my mouth, or it'll choke me dead.'

'Don't be out of temper, my dear,' urged Fagin,submissively. 'I have never forgot you, Bill;never once.'

'No! I'll pound it that you han't,' replied Sikes,with a bitter grin. 'You've been scheming andplotting away, every hour that I have laid shiv-ering and burning here; and Bill was to do this;and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all,dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and wasquite poor enough for your work. If it hadn'tbeen for the girl, I might have died.'

'There now, Bill,' remonstrated Fagin, eagerlycatching at the word. 'If it hadn't been for thegirl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the meansof your having such a handy girl about you?'

'He says true enough there!' said Nancy, com-ing hastily forward. 'Let him be; let him be.'

Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to theconversation; for the boys, receiving a sly winkfrom the wary old Jew, began to ply her withliquor: of which, however, she took very spar-ingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flowof spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into abetter temper, by affecting to regard his threatsas a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, bylaughing very heartily at one or two roughjokes, which, after repeated applications to thespirit-bottle, he condescended to make.

'It's all very well,' said Mr. Sikes; 'but I musthave some blunt from you to-night.'

'I haven't a piece of coin about me,' replied theJew.

'Then you've got lots at home,' retorted Sikes;'and I must have some from there.'

'Lots!' cried Fagin, holding up is hands. 'I have-n't so much as would—'

'I don't know how much you've got, and I daresay you hardly know yourself, as it would takea pretty long time to count it,' said Sikes; 'but Imust have some to-night; and that's flat.'

'Well, well,' said Fagin, with a sigh, 'I'll send theArtful round presently.'

'You won't do nothing of the kind,' rejoined Mr.Sikes. 'The Artful's a deal too artful, and wouldforget to come, or lose his way, or get dodgedby traps and so be perwented, or anything foran excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shallgo to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and

I'll lie down and have a snooze while she'sgone.'

After a great deal of haggling and squabbling,Fagin beat down the amount of the requiredadvance from five pounds to three pounds fourand sixpence: protesting with many solemnasseverations that that would only leave himeighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikessullenly remarking that if he couldn't get anymore he must accompany him home; with theDodger and Master Bates put the eatables inthe cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of hisaffectionate friend, returned homeward, at-tended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes,meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, andcomposing himself to sleep away the time untilthe young lady's return.

In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode,where they found Toby Crackit and Mr.Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game atcribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say

the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fif-teenth and last sixpence: much to the amuse-ment of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, appar-ently somewhat ashamed at being found relax-ing himself with a gentleman so much his infe-rior in station and mental endowments,yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up hishat to go.

'Has nobody been, Toby?' asked Fagin.

'Not a living leg,' answered Mr. Crackit, pullingup his collar; 'it's been as dull as swipes. Youought to stand something handsome, Fagin, torecompense me for keeping house so long.Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and shouldhave gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I had-n't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster.Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!'

With these and other ejaculations of the samekind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings,and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket

with a haughty air, as though such small piecesof silver were wholly beneath the considerationof a man of his figure; this done, he swaggeredout of the room, with so much elegance andgentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numer-ous admiring glances on his legs and boots tillthey were out of sight, assured the companythat he considered his acquaintance cheap atfifteen sixpences an interview, and that he did-n't value his losses the snap of his little finger.

'Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!' said MasterBates, highly amused by this declaration.

'Not a bit of it,' replied Mr. Chitling. 'Am I, Fa-gin?'

'A very clever fellow, my dear,' said Fagin, pat-ting him on the shoulder, and winking to hisother pupils.

'And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fa-gin?' asked Tom.

'No doubt at all of that, my dear.'

'And it is a creditable thing to have his ac-quaintance; an't it, Fagin?' pursued Tom.

'Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're onlyjealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them.'

'Ah!' cried Tom, triumphantly, 'that's where itis! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earnsome more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?'

'To be sure you can, and the sooner you go thebetter, Tom; so make up your loss at once, anddon't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It'stime you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten,and nothing done yet.'

In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding toNancy, took up their hats, and left the room;the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging,as they went, in many witticisms at the expenseof Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but jus-

tice to say, there was nothing very conspicuousor peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great num-ber of spirited young bloods upon town, whopay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling forbeing seen in good society: and a great numberof fine gentlemen (composing the good societyaforesaid) who established their reputationupon very much the same footing as flash TobyCrackit.

'Now,' said Fagin, when they had left the room,'I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This isonly the key of a little cupboard where I keep afew odd things the boys get, my dear. I neverlock up my money, for I've got none to lock up,my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It's apoor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fondof seeing the young people about me; and Ibear it all, I bear it all. Hush!' he said, hastilyconcealing the key in his breast; 'who's that?Listen!'

The girl, who was sitting at the table with herarms folded, appeared in no way interested inthe arrival: or to care whether the person, who-ever he was, came or went: until the murmur ofa man's voice reached her ears. The instant shecaught the sound, she tore off her bonnet andshawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrustthem under the table. The Jew, turning roundimmediately afterwards, she muttered a com-plaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that con-trasted, very remarkably, with the extremehaste and violence of this action: which, how-ever, had been unobserved by Fagin, who hadhis back towards her at the time.

'Bah!' he whispered, as though nettled by theinterruption; 'it's the man I expected before;he's coming downstairs. Not a word about themoney while he's here, Nance. He won't stoplong. Not ten minutes, my dear.'

Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, theJew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step

was heard upon the stairs without. He reachedit, at the same moment as the visitor, who, com-ing hastily into the room, was close upon thegirl before he observed her.

It was Monks.

'Only one of my young people,' said Fagin, ob-serving that Monks drew back, on beholding astranger. 'Don't move, Nancy.'

The girl drew closer to the table, and glancingat Monks with an air of careless levity, with-drew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin,she stole another look; so keen and searching,and full of purpose, that if there had been anybystander to observe the change, he couldhardly have believed the two looks to haveproceeded from the same person.

'Any news?' inquired Fagin.

'Great.'

'And—and—good?' asked Fagin, hesitating asthough he feared to vex the other man by beingtoo sanguine.

'Not bad, any way,' replied Monks with a smile.'I have been prompt enough this time. Let mehave a word with you.'

The girl drew closer to the table, and made nooffer to leave the room, although she could seethat Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: per-haps fearing she might say something aloudabout the money, if he endeavoured to get ridof her: pointed upward, and took Monks out ofthe room.

'Not that infernal hole we were in before,' shecould hear the man say as they went upstairs.Fagin laughed; and making some reply whichdid not reach her, seemed, by the creaking ofthe boards, to lead his companion to the secondstory.

Before the sound of their footsteps had ceasedto echo through the house, the girl had slippedoff her shoes; and drawing her gown looselyover her head, and muffling her arms in it,stood at the door, listening with breathless in-terest. The moment the noise ceased, she glidedfrom the room; ascended the stairs with in-credible softness and silence; and was lost inthe gloom above.

The room remained deserted for a quarter of anhour or more; the girl glided back with thesame unearthly tread; and, immediately after-wards, the two men were heard descending.Monks went at once into the street; and the Jewcrawled upstairs again for the money. When hereturned, the girl was adjusting her shawl andbonnet, as if preparing to be gone.

'Why, Nance!' exclaimed the Jew, starting backas he put down the candle, 'how pale you are!'

'Pale!' echoed the girl, shading her eyes withher hands, as if to look steadily at him.

'Quite horrible. What have you been doing toyourself?'

'Nothing that I know of, except sitting in thisclose place for I don't know how long and all,'replied the girl carelessly. 'Come! Let me getback; that's a dear.'

With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagintold the amount into her hand. They partedwithout more conversation, merely interchang-ing a 'good-night.'

When the girl got into the open street, she satdown upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a fewmoments, wholly bewildered and unable topursue her way. Suddenly she arose; and hur-rying on, in a direction quite opposite to that inwhich Sikes was awaiting her returned, quick-ened her pace, until it gradually resolved into a

violent run. After completely exhausting her-self, she stopped to take breath: and, as if sud-denly recollecting herself, and deploring herinability to do something she was bent upon,wrung her hands, and burst into tears.

It might be that her tears relieved her, or thatshe felt the full hopelessness of her condition;but she turned back; and hurrying with nearlyas great rapidity in the contrary direction;partly to recover lost time, and partly to keeppace with the violent current of her ownthoughts: soon reached the dwelling where shehad left the housebreaker.

If she betrayed any agitation, when she pre-sented herself to Mr. Sikes, he did not observeit; for merely inquiring if she had brought themoney, and receiving a reply in the affirmative,he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacinghis head upon the pillow, resumed the slum-bers which her arrival had interrupted.

It was fortunate for her that the possession ofmoney occasioned him so much employmentnext day in the way of eating and drinking; andwithal had so beneficial an effect in smoothingdown the asperities of his temper; that he hadneither time nor inclination to be very criticalupon her behaviour and deportment. That shehad all the abstracted and nervous manner ofone who is on the eve of some bold and haz-ardous step, which it has required no commonstruggle to resolve upon, would have been ob-vious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would mostprobably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr.Sikes lacking the niceties of discrimination, andbeing troubled with no more subtle misgivingsthan those which resolve themselves into adogged roughness of behaviour towards eve-rybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusu-ally amiable condition, as has been already ob-served; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor,and indeed, troubled himself so little about her,that, had her agitation been far more percepti-

ble than it was, it would have been veryunlikely to have awakened his suspicions.

As that day closed in, the girl's excitement in-creased; and, when night came on, and she satby, watching until the housebreaker shoulddrink himself asleep, there was an unusualpaleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye, thateven Sikes observed with astonishment.

Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lyingin bed, taking hot water with his gin to renderit less inflammatory; and had pushed his glasstowards Nancy to be replenished for the thirdor fourth time, when these symptoms firststruck him.

'Why, burn my body!' said the man, raisinghimself on his hands as he stared the girl in theface. 'You look like a corpse come to life again.What's the matter?'

'Matter!' replied the girl. 'Nothing. What do youlook at me so hard for?'

'What foolery is this?' demanded Sikes, grasp-ing her by the arm, and shaking her roughly.'What is it? What do you mean? What are youthinking of?'

'Of many things, Bill,' replied the girl, shiver-ing, and as she did so, pressing her hands uponher eyes. 'But, Lord! What odds in that?'

The tone of forced gaiety in which the lastwords were spoken, seemed to produce adeeper impression on Sikes than the wild andrigid look which had preceded them.

'I tell you wot it is,' said Sikes; 'if you haven'tcaught the fever, and got it comin' on, now,there's something more than usual in the wind,and something dangerous too. You're not a-going to—. No, damme! you wouldn't do that!'

'Do what?' asked the girl.

'There ain't,' said Sikes, fixing his eyes uponher, and muttering the words to himself; 'thereain't a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I'd havecut her throat three months ago. She's got thefever coming on; that's it.'

Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikesdrained the glass to the bottom, and then, withmany grumbling oaths, called for his physic.The girl jumped up, with great alacrity; pouredit quickly out, but with her back towards him;and held the vessel to his lips, while he drankoff the contents.

'Now,' said the robber, 'come and sit aside ofme, and put on your own face; or I'll alter it so,that you won't know it agin when you do wantit.'

The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his,fell back upon the pillow: turning his eyes upon

her face. They closed; opened again; closedonce more; again opened. He shifted his posi-tion restlessly; and, after dozing again, andagain, for two or three minutes, and as oftenspringing up with a look of terror, and gazingvacantly about him, was suddenly stricken, asit were, while in the very attitude of rising, intoa deep and heavy sleep. The grasp of his handrelaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by hisside; and he lay like one in a profound trance.

'The laudanum has taken effect at last,' mur-mured the girl, as she rose from the bedside. 'Imay be too late, even now.'

She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet andshawl: looking fearfully round, from time totime, as if, despite the sleeping draught, sheexpected every moment to feel the pressure ofSikes's heavy hand upon her shoulder; then,stooping softly over the bed, she kissed therobber's lips; and then opening and closing the

room-door with noiseless touch, hurried fromthe house.

A watchman was crying half-past nine, down adark passage through which she had to pass, ingaining the main thoroughfare.

'Has it long gone the half-hour?' asked the girl.

'It'll strike the hour in another quarter,' said theman: raising his lantern to her face.

'And I cannot get there in less than an hour ormore,' muttered Nancy: brushing swiftly pasthim, and gliding rapidly down the street.

Many of the shops were already closing in theback lanes and avenues through which shetracked her way, in making from Spitalfieldstowards the West-End of London. The clockstruck ten, increasing her impatience. She torealong the narrow pavement: elbowing the pas-sengers from side to side; and darting almost

under the horses' heads, crossed crowdedstreets, where clusters of persons were eagerlywatching their opportunity to do the like.

'The woman is mad!' said the people, turning tolook after her as she rushed away.

When she reached the more wealthy quarter ofthe town, the streets were comparatively de-serted; and here her headlong progress exciteda still greater curiosity in the stragglers whomshe hurried past. Some quickened their pacebehind, as though to see whither she was has-tening at such an unusual rate; and a few madehead upon her, and looked back, surprised ather undiminished speed; but they fell off oneby one; and when she neared her place of des-tination, she was alone.

It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsomestreet near Hyde Park. As the brilliant light ofthe lamp which burnt before its door, guidedher to the spot, the clock struck eleven. She had

loitered for a few paces as though irresolute,and making up her mind to advance; but thesound determined her, and she stepped intothe hall. The porter's seat was vacant. Shelooked round with an air of incertitude, andadvanced towards the stairs.

'Now, young woman!' said a smartly-dressedfemale, looking out from a door behind her,'who do you want here?'

'A lady who is stopping in this house,' an-swered the girl.

'A lady!' was the reply, accompanied with ascornful look. 'What lady?'

'Miss Maylie,' said Nancy.

The young woman, who had by this time,noted her appearance, replied only by a look ofvirtuous disdain; and summoned a man to an-swer her. To him, Nancy repeated her request.

'What name am I to say?' asked the waiter.

'It's of no use saying any,' replied Nancy.

'Nor business?' said the man.

'No, nor that neither,' rejoined the girl. 'I mustsee the lady.'

'Come!' said the man, pushing her towards thedoor. 'None of this. Take yourself off.'

'I shall be carried out if I go!' said the girl vio-lently; 'and I can make that a job that two ofyou won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here,'she said, looking round, 'that will see a simplemessage carried for a poor wretch like me?'

This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some ofthe other servants was looking on, and whostepped forward to interfere.

'Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?' said this per-son.

'What's the good?' replied the man. 'You don'tsuppose the young lady will see such as her; doyou?'

This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character,raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in thebosoms of four housemaids, who remarked,with great fervour, that the creature was a dis-grace to her sex; and strongly advocated herbeing thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.

'Do what you like with me,' said the girl, turn-ing to the men again; 'but do what I ask youfirst, and I ask you to give this message for GodAlmighty's sake.'

The soft-hearted cook added his intercession,and the result was that the man who had firstappeared undertook its delivery.

'What's it to be?' said the man, with one foot onthe stairs.

'That a young woman earnestly asks to speak toMiss Maylie alone,' said Nancy; 'and that if thelady will only hear the first word she has tosay, she will know whether to hear her busi-ness, or to have her turned out of doors as animpostor.'

'I say,' said the man, 'you're coming it strong!'

'You give the message,' said the girl firmly; 'andlet me hear the answer.'

The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, paleand almost breathless, listening with quiveringlip to the very audible expressions of scorn, ofwhich the chaste housemaids were very pro-lific; and of which they became still more so,when the man returned, and said the youngwoman was to walk upstairs.

'It's no good being proper in this world,' saidthe first housemaid.

'Brass can do better than the gold what hasstood the fire,' said the second.

The third contented herself with wondering'what ladies was made of'; and the fourth tookthe first in a quartette of 'Shameful!' with whichthe Dianas concluded.

Regardless of all this: for she had weightiermatters at heart: Nancy followed the man, withtrembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber,lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he lefther, and retired.

CHAPTER XL

A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS ASEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER

The girl's life had been squandered in thestreets, and among the most noisome of thestews and dens of London, but there was some-thing of the woman's original nature left in herstill; and when she heard a light step approach-ing the door opposite to that by which she hadentered, and thought of the wide contrastwhich the small room would in another mo-ment contain, she felt burdened with the senseof her own deep shame, and shrunk as thoughshe could scarcely bear the presence of her withwhom she had sought this interview.

But struggling with these better feelings waspride,—the vice of the lowest and most de-based creatures no less than of the high andself-assured. The miserable companion of

thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of lowhaunts, the associate of the scourings of the jailsand hulks, living within the shadow of the gal-lows itself,—even this degraded being felt tooproud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanlyfeeling which she thought a weakness, butwhich alone connected her with that humanity,of which her wasting life had obliterated somany, many traces when a very child.

She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe thatthe figure which presented itself was that of aslight and beautiful girl; then, bending them onthe ground, she tossed her head with affectedcarelessness as she said:

'It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If Ihad taken offence, and gone away, as manywould have done, you'd have been sorry for itone day, and not without reason either.'

'I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshlyto you,' replied Rose. 'Do not think of that. Tell

me why you wished to see me. I am the personyou inquired for.'

The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice,the gentle manner, the absence of any accent ofhaughtiness or displeasure, took the girl com-pletely by surprise, and she burst into tears.

'Oh, lady, lady!' she said, clasping her handspassionately before her face, 'if there was morelike you, there would be fewer like me,—therewould—there would!'

'Sit down,' said Rose, earnestly. 'If you are inpoverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to re-lieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down.'

'Let me stand, lady,' said the girl, still weeping,'and do not speak to me so kindly till you knowme better. It is growing late. Is—is—that doorshut?'

'Yes,' said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to benearer assistance in case she should require it.'Why?'

'Because,' said the girl, 'I am about to put mylife and the lives of others in your hands. I amthe girl that dragged little Oliver back to oldFagin's on the night he went out from the housein Pentonville.'

'You!' said Rose Maylie.

'I, lady!' replied the girl. 'I am the infamouscreature you have heard of, that lives amongthe thieves, and that never from the first mo-ment I can recollect my eyes and senses open-ing on London streets have known any betterlife, or kinder words than they have given me,so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openlyfrom me, lady. I am younger than you wouldthink, to look at me, but I am well used to it.The poorest women fall back, as I make myway along the crowded pavement.'

'What dreadful things are these!' said Rose,involuntarily falling from her strange compan-ion.

'Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,'cried the girl, 'that you had friends to care forand keep you in your childhood, and that youwere never in the midst of cold and hunger,and riot and drunkenness, and—and—something worse than all—as I have been frommy cradle. I may use the word, for the alley andthe gutter were mine, as they will be mydeathbed.'

'I pity you!' said Rose, in a broken voice. 'Itwrings my heart to hear you!'

'Heaven bless you for your goodness!' rejoinedthe girl. 'If you knew what I am sometimes, youwould pity me, indeed. But I have stolen awayfrom those who would surely murder me, ifthey knew I had been here, to tell you what I

have overheard. Do you know a man namedMonks?'

'No,' said Rose.

'He knows you,' replied the girl; 'and knew youwere here, for it was by hearing him tell theplace that I found you out.'

'I never heard the name,' said Rose.

'Then he goes by some other amongst us,' re-joined the girl, 'which I more than thought be-fore. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver wasput into your house on the night of the robbery,I—suspecting this man—listened to a conversa-tion held between him and Fagin in the dark. Ifound out, from what I heard, that Monks—theman I asked you about, you know—'

'Yes,' said Rose, 'I understand.'

'—That Monks,' pursued the girl, 'had seen himaccidently with two of our boys on the day we

first lost him, and had known him directly to bethe same child that he was watching for,though I couldn't make out why. A bargain wasstruck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got backhe should have a certain sum; and he was tohave more for making him a thief, which thisMonks wanted for some purpose of his own.'

'For what purpose?' asked Rose.

'He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as Ilistened, in the hope of finding out,' said thegirl; 'and there are not many people besides methat could have got out of their way in time toescape discovery. But I did; and I saw him nomore till last night.'

'And what occurred then?'

'I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again.Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping my-self up so that my shadow would not betrayme, again listened at the door. The first words I

heard Monks say were these: "So the onlyproofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom ofthe river, and the old hag that received themfrom the mother is rotting in her coffin." Theylaughed, and talked of his success in doing this;and Monks, talking on about the boy, and get-ting very wild, said that though he had got theyoung devil's money safely now, he'd ratherhave had it the other way; for, what a game itwould have been to have brought down theboast of the father's will, by driving himthrough every jail in town, and then haulinghim up for some capital felony which Fagincould easily manage, after having made a goodprofit of him besides.'

'What is all this!' said Rose.

'The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,'replied the girl. 'Then, he said, with oathscommon enough in my ears, but strange toyours, that if he could gratify his hatred by tak-ing the boy's life without bringing his own neck

in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd beupon the watch to meet him at every turn inlife; and if he took advantage of his birth andhistory, he might harm him yet. "In short, Fa-gin," he says, "Jew as you are, you never laidsuch snares as I'll contrive for my youngbrother, Oliver."'

'His brother!' exclaimed Rose.

'Those were his words,' said Nancy, glancinguneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased todo, since she began to speak, for a vision ofSikes haunted her perpetually. 'And more.When he spoke of you and the other lady, andsaid it seemed contrived by Heaven, or thedevil, against him, that Oliver should come intoyour hands, he laughed, and said there wassome comfort in that too, for how many thou-sands and hundreds of thousands of poundswould you not give, if you had them, to knowwho your two-legged spaniel was.'

'You do not mean,' said Rose, turning very pale,'to tell me that this was said in earnest?'

'He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a manever did,' replied the girl, shaking her head. 'Heis an earnest man when his hatred is up. I knowmany who do worse things; but I'd rather listento them all a dozen times, than to that Monksonce. It is growing late, and I have to reachhome without suspicion of having been on suchan errand as this. I must get back quickly.'

'But what can I do?' said Rose. 'To what use canI turn this communication without you? Back!Why do you wish to return to companions youpaint in such terrible colors? If you repeat thisinformation to a gentleman whom I can sum-mon in an instant from the next room, you canbe consigned to some place of safety withouthalf an hour's delay.'

'I wish to go back,' said the girl. 'I must go back,because—how can I tell such things to an inno-

cent lady like you?—because among the men Ihave told you of, there is one: the most desper-ate among them all; that I can't leave: no, noteven to be saved from the life I am leadingnow.'

'Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalfbefore,' said Rose; 'your coming here, at sogreat a risk, to tell me what you have heard;your manner, which convinces me of the truthof what you say; your evident contrition, andsense of shame; all lead me to believe that youmight yet be reclaimed. Oh!' said the earnestgirl, folding her hands as the tears courseddown her face, 'do not turn a deaf ear to theentreaties of one of your own sex; the first—thefirst, I do believe, who ever appealed to you inthe voice of pity and compassion. Do hear mywords, and let me save you yet, for betterthings.'

'Lady,' cried the girl, sinking on her knees,'dear, sweet, angel lady, you are the first that

ever blessed me with such words as these, andif I had heard them years ago, they might haveturned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but itis too late, it is too late!'

'It is never too late,' said Rose, 'for penitenceand atonement.'

'It is,' cried the girl, writhing in agony of hermind; 'I cannot leave him now! I could not behis death.'

'Why should you be?' asked Rose.

'Nothing could save him,' cried the girl. 'If Itold others what I have told you, and led totheir being taken, he would be sure to die. He isthe boldest, and has been so cruel!'

'Is it possible,' cried Rose, 'that for such a manas this, you can resign every future hope, andthe certainty of immediate rescue? It is mad-ness.'

'I don't know what it is,' answered the girl; 'Ionly know that it is so, and not with me alone,but with hundreds of others as bad andwretched as myself. I must go back. Whether itis God's wrath for the wrong I have done, I donot know; but I am drawn back to him throughevery suffering and ill usage; and I should be, Ibelieve, if I knew that I was to die by his handat last.'

'What am I to do?' said Rose. 'I should not letyou depart from me thus.'

'You should, lady, and I know you will,' re-joined the girl, rising. 'You will not stop mygoing because I have trusted in your goodness,and forced no promise from you, as I mighthave done.'

'Of what use, then, is the communication youhave made?' said Rose. 'This mystery must beinvestigated, or how will its disclosure to me,benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?'

'You must have some kind gentleman aboutyou that will hear it as a secret, and advise youwhat to do,' rejoined the girl.

'But where can I find you again when it is nec-essary?' asked Rose. 'I do not seek to knowwhere these dreadful people live, but wherewill you be walking or passing at any settledperiod from this time?'

'Will you promise me that you will have mysecret strictly kept, and come alone, or with theonly other person that knows it; and that I shallnot be watched or followed?' asked the girl.

'I promise you solemnly,' answered Rose.

'Every Sunday night, from eleven until theclock strikes twelve,' said the girl without hesi-tation, 'I will walk on London Bridge if I amalive.'

'Stay another moment,' interposed Rose, as thegirl moved hurriedly towards the door. 'Thinkonce again on your own condition, and the op-portunity you have of escaping from it. Youhave a claim on me: not only as the voluntarybearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lostalmost beyond redemption. Will you return tothis gang of robbers, and to this man, when aword can save you? What fascination is it thatcan take you back, and make you cling to wick-edness and misery? Oh! is there no chord inyour heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left,to which I can appeal against this terrible in-fatuation!'

'When ladies as young, and good, and beautifulas you are,' replied the girl steadily, 'give awayyour hearts, love will carry you all lengths—even such as you, who have home, friends,other admirers, everything, to fill them. Whensuch as I, who have no certain roof but the cof-finlid, and no friend in sickness or death but

the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on anyman, and let him fill the place that has been ablank through all our wretched lives, who canhope to cure us? Pity us, lady—pity us for hav-ing only one feeling of the woman left, and forhaving that turned, by a heavy judgment, froma comfort and a pride, into a new means of vio-lence and suffering.'

'You will,' said Rose, after a pause, 'take somemoney from me, which may enable you to livewithout dishonesty—at all events until we meetagain?'

'Not a penny,' replied the girl, waving herhand.

'Do not close your heart against all my effortsto help you,' said Rose, stepping gently for-ward. 'I wish to serve you indeed.'

'You would serve me best, lady,' replied thegirl, wringing her hands, 'if you could take my

life at once; for I have felt more grief to think ofwhat I am, to-night, than I ever did before, andit would be something not to die in the hell inwhich I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady,and send as much happiness on your head as Ihave brought shame on mine!'

Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the un-happy creature turned away; while Rose May-lie, overpowered by this extraordinary inter-view, which had more the semblance of a rapiddream than an actual occurrence, sank into achair, and endeavoured to collect her wander-ing thoughts.

CHAPTER XLI

CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES,AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES,

LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COMEALONE

Her situation was, indeed, one of no commontrial and difficulty. While she felt the most ea-ger and burning desire to penetrate the mysteryin which Oliver's history was enveloped, shecould not but hold sacred the confidence whichthe miserable woman with whom she had justconversed, had reposed in her, as a young andguileless girl. Her words and manner hadtouched Rose Maylie's heart; and, mingled withher love for her young charge, and scarcely lessintense in its truth and fervour, was her fondwish to win the outcast back to repentance andhope.

They purposed remaining in London only threedays, prior to departing for some weeks to adistant part of the coast. It was now midnightof the first day. What course of action could shedetermine upon, which could be adopted in

eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she post-pone the journey without exciting suspicion?

Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be forthe next two days; but Rose was too well ac-quainted with the excellent gentleman's im-petuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrathwith which, in the first explosion of his indig-nation, he would regard the instrument ofOliver's recapture, to trust him with the secret,when her representations in the girl's behalfcould be seconded by no experienced person.These were all reasons for the greatest cautionand most circumspect behaviour in communi-cating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulsewould infallibly be to hold a conference withthe worthy doctor on the subject. As to resort-ing to any legal adviser, even if she had knownhow to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of,for the same reason. Once the thought occurredto her of seeking assistance from Harry; but thisawakened the recollection of their last parting,

and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back,when—the tears rose to her eyes as she pur-sued this train of reflection—he might have bythis time learnt to forget her, and to be happieraway.

Disturbed by these different reflections; inclin-ing now to one course and then to another, andagain recoiling from all, as each successive con-sideration presented itself to her mind; Rosepassed a sleepless and anxious night. Aftermore communing with herself next day, shearrived at the desperate conclusion of consult-ing Harry.

'If it be painful to him,' she thought, 'to comeback here, how painful it will be to me! Butperhaps he will not come; he may write, or hemay come himself, and studiously abstain frommeeting me—he did when he went away. Ihardly thought he would; but it was better forus both.' And here Rose dropped the pen, andturned away, as though the very paper which

was to be her messenger should not see herweep.

She had taken up the same pen, and laid itdown again fifty times, and had considered andreconsidered the first line of her letter withoutwriting the first word, when Oliver, who hadbeen walking in the streets, with Mr. Giles for abody-guard, entered the room in such breath-less haste and violent agitation, as seemed tobetoken some new cause of alarm.

'What makes you look so flurried?' asked Rose,advancing to meet him.

'I hardly know how; I feel as if I should bechoked,' replied the boy. 'Oh dear! To think thatI should see him at last, and you should be ableto know that I have told you the truth!'

'I never thought you had told us anything butthe truth,' said Rose, soothing him. 'But what isthis?—of whom do you speak?'

'I have seen the gentleman,' replied Oliver,scarcely able to articulate, 'the gentleman whowas so good to me—Mr. Brownlow, that wehave so often talked about.'

'Where?' asked Rose.

'Getting out of a coach,' replied Oliver, shed-ding tears of delight, 'and going into a house. Ididn't speak to him—I couldn't speak to him,for he didn't see me, and I trembled so, that Iwas not able to go up to him. But Giles asked,for me, whether he lived there, and they said hedid. Look here,' said Oliver, opening a scrap ofpaper, 'here it is; here's where he lives—I'mgoing there directly! Oh, dear me, dear me!What shall I do when I come to see him andhear him speak again!'

With her attention not a little distracted bythese and a great many other incoherent excla-mations of joy, Rose read the address, whichwas Craven Street, in the Strand. She very soon

determined upon turning the discovery to ac-count.

'Quick!' she said. 'Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will takeyou there directly, without a minute's loss oftime. I will only tell my aunt that we are goingout for an hour, and be ready as soon as youare.'

Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, andin little more than five minutes they were ontheir way to Craven Street. When they arrivedthere, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pre-tence of preparing the old gentleman to receivehim; and sending up her card by the servant,requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very press-ing business. The servant soon returned, to begthat she would walk upstairs; and followinghim into an upper room, Miss Maylie was pre-sented to an elderly gentleman of benevolentappearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no greatdistance from whom, was seated another old

gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters;who did not look particularly benevolent, andwho was sitting with his hands clasped on thetop of a thick stick, and his chin propped there-upon.

'Dear me,' said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness,'I beg your pardon, young lady—I imagined itwas some importunate person who—I beg youwill excuse me. Be seated, pray.'

'Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?' said Rose, glanc-ing from the other gentleman to the one whohad spoken.

'That is my name,' said the old gentleman. 'Thisis my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will youleave us for a few minutes?'

'I believe,' interposed Miss Maylie, 'that at thisperiod of our interview, I need not give thatgentleman the trouble of going away. If I am

correctly informed, he is cognizant of the busi-ness on which I wish to speak to you.'

Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig,who had made one very stiff bow, and risenfrom his chair, made another very stiff bow,and dropped into it again.

'I shall surprise you very much, I have nodoubt,' said Rose, naturally embarrassed; 'butyou once showed great benevolence and good-ness to a very dear young friend of mine, and Iam sure you will take an interest in hearing ofhim again.'

'Indeed!' said Mr. Brownlow.

'Oliver Twist you knew him as,' replied Rose.

The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr.Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into alarge book that lay on the table, upset it with agreat crash, and falling back in his chair, dis-

charged from his features every expression butone of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in aprolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamedof having betrayed so much emotion, he jerkedhimself, as it were, by a convulsion into hisformer attitude, and looking out straight beforehim emitted a long deep whistle, whichseemed, at last, not to be discharged on emptyair, but to die away in the innermost recesses ofhis stomach.

Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, althoughhis astonishment was not expressed in the sameeccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer toMiss Maylie's, and said,

'Do me the favour, my dear young lady, toleave entirely out of the question that goodnessand benevolence of which you speak, and ofwhich nobody else knows anything; and if youhave it in your power to produce any evidencewhich will alter the unfavourable opinion I was

once induced to entertain of that poor child, inHeaven's name put me in possession of it.'

'A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a badone,' growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by someventriloquial power, without moving a muscleof his face.

'He is a child of a noble nature and a warmheart,' said Rose, colouring; 'and that Powerwhich has thought fit to try him beyond hisyears, has planted in his breast affections andfeelings which would do honour to many whohave numbered his days six times over.'

'I'm only sixty-one,' said Mr. Grimwig, with thesame rigid face. 'And, as the devil's in it if thisOliver is not twelve years old at least, I don'tsee the application of that remark.'

'Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,' said Mr.Brownlow; 'he does not mean what he says.'

'Yes, he does,' growled Mr. Grimwig.

'No, he does not,' said Mr. Brownlow, obvi-ously rising in wrath as he spoke.

'He'll eat his head, if he doesn't,' growled Mr.Grimwig.

'He would deserve to have it knocked off, if hedoes,' said Mr. Brownlow.

'And he'd uncommonly like to see any manoffer to do it,' responded Mr. Grimwig, knock-ing his stick upon the floor.

Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemenseverally took snuff, and afterwards shookhands, according to their invariable custom.

'Now, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'toreturn to the subject in which your humanity isso much interested. Will you let me know whatintelligence you have of this poor child: allow-ing me to promise that I exhausted every

means in my power of discovering him, andthat since I have been absent from this country,my first impression that he had imposed uponme, and had been persuaded by his former as-sociates to rob me, has been considerablyshaken.'

Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts,at once related, in a few natural words, all thathad befallen Oliver since he left Mr.Brownlow's house; reserving Nancy's informa-tion for that gentleman's private ear, and con-cluding with the assurance that his only sor-row, for some months past, had been not beingable to meet with his former benefactor andfriend.

'Thank God!' said the old gentleman. 'This isgreat happiness to me, great happiness. Butyou have not told me where he is now, MissMaylie. You must pardon my finding fault withyou,—but why not have brought him?'

'He is waiting in a coach at the door,' repliedRose.

'At this door!' cried the old gentleman. Withwhich he hurried out of the room, down thestairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach,without another word.

When the room-door closed behind him, Mr.Grimwig lifted up his head, and converting oneof the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, de-scribed three distinct circles with the assistanceof his stick and the table; sitting in it all thetime. After performing this evolution, he roseand limped as fast as he could up and downthe room at least a dozen times, and then stop-ping suddenly before Rose, kissed her withoutthe slightest preface.

'Hush!' he said, as the young lady rose in somealarm at this unusual proceeding. 'Don't beafraid. I'm old enough to be your grandfather.You're a sweet girl. I like you. Here they are!'

In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterousdive into his former seat, Mr. Brownlow re-turned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr.Grimwig received very graciously; and if thegratification of that moment had been the onlyreward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver'sbehalf, Rose Maylie would have been well re-paid.

'There is somebody else who should not be for-gotten, by the bye,' said Mr. Brownlow, ringingthe bell. 'Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.'

The old housekeeper answered the summonswith all dispatch; and dropping a curtsey at thedoor, waited for orders.

'Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,' saidMr. Brownlow, rather testily.

'Well, that I do, sir,' replied the old lady. 'Peo-ple's eyes, at my time of life, don't improvewith age, sir.'

'I could have told you that,' rejoined Mr.Brownlow; 'but put on your glasses, and see ifyou can't find out what you were wanted for,will you?'

The old lady began to rummage in her pocketfor her spectacles. But Oliver's patience was notproof against this new trial; and yielding to hisfirst impulse, he sprang into her arms.

'God be good to me!' cried the old lady, em-bracing him; 'it is my innocent boy!'

'My dear old nurse!' cried Oliver.

'He would come back—I knew he would,' saidthe old lady, holding him in her arms. 'Howwell he looks, and how like a gentleman's sonhe is dressed again! Where have you been, thislong, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, butnot so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad. Ihave never forgotten them or his quiet smile,but have seen them every day, side by side

with those of my own dear children, dead andgone since I was a lightsome young creature.'Running on thus, and now holding Oliver fromher to mark how he had grown, now claspinghim to her and passing her fingers fondlythrough his hair, the good soul laughed andwept upon his neck by turns.

Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes atleisure, Mr. Brownlow led the way into anotherroom; and there, heard from Rose a full narra-tion of her interview with Nancy, which occa-sioned him no little surprise and perplexity.Rose also explained her reasons for not confid-ing in her friend Mr. Losberne in the first in-stance. The old gentleman considered that shehad acted prudently, and readily undertook tohold solemn conference with the worthy doctorhimself. To afford him an early opportunity forthe execution of this design, it was arrangedthat he should call at the hotel at eight o'clockthat evening, and that in the meantime Mrs.

Maylie should be cautiously informed of allthat had occurred. These preliminaries ad-justed, Rose and Oliver returned home.

Rose had by no means overrated the measureof the good doctor's wrath. Nancy's history wasno sooner unfolded to him, than he pouredforth a shower of mingled threats and execra-tions; threatened to make her the first victim ofthe combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers andDuff; and actually put on his hat preparatory tosallying forth to obtain the assistance of thoseworthies. And, doubtless, he would, in this firstoutbreak, have carried the intention into effectwithout a moment's consideration of the conse-quences, if he had not been restrained, in part,by corresponding violence on the side of Mr.Brownlow, who was himself of an irascibletemperament, and party by such argumentsand representations as seemed best calculatedto dissuade him from his hotbrained purpose.

'Then what the devil is to be done?' said theimpetuous doctor, when they had rejoined thetwo ladies. 'Are we to pass a vote of thanks toall these vagabonds, male and female, and begthem to accept a hundred pounds, or so, apiece,as a trifling mark of our esteem, and someslight acknowledgment of their kindness toOliver?'

'Not exactly that,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow,laughing; 'but we must proceed gently andwith great care.'

'Gentleness and care,' exclaimed the doctor. 'I'dsend them one and all to—'

'Never mind where,' interposed Mr. Brownlow.'But reflect whether sending them anywhere islikely to attain the object we have in view.'

'What object?' asked the doctor.

'Simply, the discovery of Oliver's parentage,and regaining for him the inheritance of which,if this story be true, he has been fraudulentlydeprived.'

'Ah!' said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself withhis pocket-handkerchief; 'I almost forgot that.'

'You see,' pursued Mr. Brownlow; 'placing thispoor girl entirely out of the question, and sup-posing it were possible to bring these scoun-drels to justice without compromising hersafety, what good should we bring about?'

'Hanging a few of them at least, in all probabil-ity,' suggested the doctor, 'and transporting therest.'

'Very good,' replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling;'but no doubt they will bring that about forthemselves in the fulness of time, and if we stepin to forestall them, it seems to me that we shallbe performing a very Quixotic act, in direct

opposition to our own interest—or at least toOliver's, which is the same thing.'

'How?' inquired the doctor.

'Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have ex-treme difficulty in getting to the bottom of thismystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks,upon his knees. That can only be done bystratagem, and by catching him when he is notsurrounded by these people. For, suppose hewere apprehended, we have no proof againsthim. He is not even (so far as we know, or asthe facts appear to us) concerned with the gangin any of their robberies. If he were not dis-charged, it is very unlikely that he could re-ceive any further punishment than being com-mitted to prison as a rogue and vagabond; andof course ever afterwards his mouth would beso obstinately closed that he might as well, forour purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and anidiot.'

'Then,' said the doctor impetuously, 'I put it toyou again, whether you think it reasonable thatthis promise to the girl should be consideredbinding; a promise made with the best andkindest intentions, but really—'

'Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady,pray,' said Mr. Brownlow, interrupting Rose asshe was about to speak. 'The promise shall bekept. I don't think it will, in the slightest de-gree, interfere with our proceedings. But, be-fore we can resolve upon any precise course ofaction, it will be necessary to see the girl; toascertain from her whether she will point outthis Monks, on the understanding that he is tobe dealt with by us, and not by the law; or, ifshe will not, or cannot do that, to procure fromher such an account of his haunts and descrip-tion of his person, as will enable us to identifyhim. She cannot be seen until next Sundaynight; this is Tuesday. I would suggest that inthe meantime, we remain perfectly quiet, and

keep these matters secret even from Oliverhimself.'

Although Mr. Losberne received with manywry faces a proposal involving a delay of fivewhole days, he was fain to admit that no bettercourse occurred to him just then; and as bothRose and Mrs. Maylie sided very strongly withMr. Brownlow, that gentleman's propositionwas carried unanimously.

'I should like,' he said, 'to call in the aid of myfriend Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but ashrewd one, and might prove of material assis-tance to us; I should say that he was bred alawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust becausehe had only one brief and a motion of course, intwenty years, though whether that is recom-mendation or not, you must determine foryourselves.'

'I have no objection to your calling in yourfriend if I may call in mine,' said the doctor.

'We must put it to the vote,' replied Mr.Brownlow, 'who may he be?'

'That lady's son, and this young lady's—veryold friend,' said the doctor, motioning towardsMrs. Maylie, and concluding with an expres-sive glance at her niece.

Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make anyaudible objection to this motion (possibly shefelt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylieand Mr. Grimwig were accordingly added tothe committee.

'We stay in town, of course,' said Mrs. Maylie,'while there remains the slightest prospect ofprosecuting this inquiry with a chance of suc-cess. I will spare neither trouble nor expense inbehalf of the object in which we are all sodeeply interested, and I am content to remainhere, if it be for twelve months, so long as youassure me that any hope remains.'

'Good!' rejoined Mr. Brownlow. 'And as I seeon the faces about me, a disposition to inquirehow it happened that I was not in the way tocorroborate Oliver's tale, and had so suddenlyleft the kingdom, let me stipulate that I shall beasked no questions until such time as I maydeem it expedient to forestall them by tellingmy own story. Believe me, I make this requestwith good reason, for I might otherwise excitehopes destined never to be realised, and onlyincrease difficulties and disappointments al-ready quite numerous enough. Come! Supperhas been announced, and young Oliver, who isall alone in the next room, will have begun tothink, by this time, that we have wearied of hiscompany, and entered into some dark conspir-acy to thrust him forth upon the world.'

With these words, the old gentleman gave hishand to Mrs. Maylie, and escorted her into thesupper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading

Rose; and the council was, for the present, ef-fectually broken up.

CHAPTER XLII

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OFOLIVER'S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKSOF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHAR-ACTER IN THE METROPOLIS

Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr.Sikes to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mis-sion to Rose Maylie, there advanced towardsLondon, by the Great North Road, two persons,upon whom it is expedient that this historyshould bestow some attention.

They were a man and woman; or perhaps theywould be better described as a male and fe-male: for the former was one of those long-

limbed, knock-kneed, shambling, bony people,to whom it is difficult to assign any preciseage,—looking as they do, when they are yetboys, like undergrown men, and when they arealmost men, like overgrown boys. The womanwas young, but of a robust and hardy make, asshe need have been to bear the weight of theheavy bundle which was strapped to her back.Her companion was not encumbered withmuch luggage, as there merely dangled from astick which he carried over his shoulder, asmall parcel wrapped in a common handker-chief, and apparently light enough. This cir-cumstance, added to the length of his legs,which were of unusual extent, enabled himwith much ease to keep some half-dozen pacesin advance of his companion, to whom he occa-sionally turned with an impatient jerk of thehead: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urg-ing her to greater exertion.

Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road,taking little heed of any object within sight,save when they stepped aside to allow a widerpassage for the mail-coaches which were whirl-ing out of town, until they passed throughHighgate archway; when the foremost travellerstopped and called impatiently to his compan-ion,

'Come on, can't yer? What a lazybones yer are,Charlotte.'

'It's a heavy load, I can tell you,' said the fe-male, coming up, almost breathless with fa-tigue.

'Heavy! What are yer talking about? What areyer made for?' rejoined the male traveller,changing his own little bundle as he spoke, tothe other shoulder. 'Oh, there yer are, restingagain! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire any-body's patience out, I don't know what is!'

'Is it much farther?' asked the woman, restingherself against a bank, and looking up with theperspiration streaming from her face.

'Much farther! Yer as good as there,' said thelong-legged tramper, pointing out before him.'Look there! Those are the lights of London.'

'They're a good two mile off, at least,' said thewoman despondingly.

'Never mind whether they're two mile off, ortwenty,' said Noah Claypole; for he it was; 'butget up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so Igive yer notice.'

As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger,and as he crossed the road while speaking, as iffully prepared to put his threat into execution,the woman rose without any further remark,and trudged onward by his side.

'Where do you mean to stop for the night,Noah?' she asked, after they had walked a fewhundred yards.

'How should I know?' replied Noah, whosetemper had been considerably impaired bywalking.

'Near, I hope,' said Charlotte.

'No, not near,' replied Mr. Claypole. 'There! Notnear; so don't think it.'

'Why not?'

'When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing,that's enough, without any why or becauseeither,' replied Mr. Claypole with dignity.

'Well, you needn't be so cross,' said his com-panion.

'A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to goand stop at the very first public-house outside

the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come upafter us, might poke in his old nose, and haveus taken back in a cart with handcuffs on,' saidMr. Claypole in a jeering tone. 'No! I shall goand lose myself among the narrowest streets Ican find, and not stop till we come to the veryout-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. 'Cod,yer may thanks yer stars I've got a head; for ifwe hadn't gone, at first, the wrong road a pur-pose, and come back across country, yer'd havebeen locked up hard and fast a week ago, mylady. And serve yer right for being a fool.'

'I know I ain't as cunning as you are,' repliedCharlotte; 'but don't put all the blame on me,and say I should have been locked up. Youwould have been if I had been, any way.'

'Yer took the money from the till, yer know yerdid,' said Mr. Claypole.

'I took it for you, Noah, dear,' rejoined Char-lotte.

'Did I keep it?' asked Mr. Claypole.

'No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like adear, and so you are,' said the lady, chuckinghim under the chin, and drawing her armthrough his.

This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr.Claypole's habit to repose a blind and foolishconfidence in anybody, it should be observed,in justice to that gentleman, that he had trustedCharlotte to this extent, in order that, if theywere pursued, the money might be found onher: which would leave him an opportunity ofasserting his innocence of any theft, and wouldgreatly facilitate his chances of escape. Ofcourse, he entered at this juncture, into no ex-planation of his motives, and they walked onvery lovingly together.

In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Clay-pole went on, without halting, until he arrivedat the Angel at Islington, where he wisely

judged, from the crowd of passengers andnumbers of vehicles, that London began in ear-nest. Just pausing to observe which appearedthe most crowded streets, and consequently themost to be avoided, he crossed into Saint John'sRoad, and was soon deep in the obscurity ofthe intricate and dirty ways, which, lying be-tween Gray's Inn Lane and Smithfield, renderthat part of the town one of the lowest andworst that improvement has left in the midst ofLondon.

Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked,dragging Charlotte after him; now steppinginto the kennel to embrace at a glance thewhole external character of some small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fanciedappearance induced him to believe it too publicfor his purpose. At length, he stopped in frontof one, more humble in appearance and moredirty than any he had yet seen; and, havingcrossed over and surveyed it from the opposite

pavement, graciously announced his intentionof putting up there, for the night.

'So give us the bundle,' said Noah, unstrappingit from the woman's shoulders, and slinging itover his own; 'and don't yer speak, exceptwhen yer spoke to. What's the name of thehouse—t-h-r—three what?'

'Cripples,' said Charlotte.

'Three Cripples,' repeated Noah, 'and a verygood sign too. Now, then! Keep close at myheels, and come along.' With these injunctions,he pushed the rattling door with his shoulder,and entered the house, followed by his com-panion.

There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew,who, with his two elbows on the counter, wasreading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hardat Noah, and Noah stared very hard at him.

If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy'sdress, there might have been some reason forthe Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he haddiscarded the coat and badge, and wore a shortsmock-frock over his leathers, there seemed noparticular reason for his appearance exciting somuch attention in a public-house.

'Is this the Three Cripples?' asked Noah.

'That is the dabe of this 'ouse,' replied the Jew.

'A gentleman we met on the road, coming upfrom the country, recommended us here,' saidNoah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call herattention to this most ingenious device for at-tracting respect, and perhaps to warn her tobetray no surprise. 'We want to sleep here to-night.'

'I'b dot certaid you cad,' said Barney, who wasthe attendant sprite; 'but I'll idquire.'

'Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meatand a drop of beer while yer inquiring, willyer?' said Noah.

Barney complied by ushering them into a smallback-room, and setting the required viandsbefore them; having done which, he informedthe travellers that they could be lodged thatnight, and left the amiable couple to their re-freshment.

Now, this back-room was immediately behindthe bar, and some steps lower, so that any per-son connected with the house, undrawing asmall curtain which concealed a single pane ofglass fixed in the wall of the last-named apart-ment, about five feet from its flooring, couldnot only look down upon any guests in theback-room without any great hazard of beingobserved (the glass being in a dark angle of thewall, between which and a large upright beamthe observer had to thrust himself), but could,by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain

with tolerable distinctness, their subject of con-versation. The landlord of the house had notwithdrawn his eye from this place of espial forfive minutes, and Barney had only just re-turned from making the communication aboverelated, when Fagin, in the course of his eve-ning's business, came into the bar to inquireafter some of his young pupils.

'Hush!' said Barney: 'stradegers id the nextroob.'

'Strangers!' repeated the old man in a whisper.

'Ah! Ad rub uds too,' added Barney. 'Frob thecuttry, but subthig in your way, or I'b bistaked.'

Fagin appeared to receive this communicationwith great interest.

Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eyeto the pane of glass, from which secret post hecould see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from

the dish, and porter from the pot, and adminis-tering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte,who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at hispleasure.

'Aha!' he whispered, looking round to Barney,'I like that fellow's looks. He'd be of use to us;he knows how to train the girl already. Don'tmake as much noise as a mouse, my dear, andlet me hear 'em talk—let me hear 'em.'

He again applied his eye to the glass, and turn-ing his ear to the partition, listened attentively:with a subtle and eager look upon his face, thatmight have appertained to some old goblin.

'So I mean to be a gentleman,' said Mr. Clay-pole, kicking out his legs, and continuing aconversation, the commencement of which Fa-gin had arrived too late to hear. 'No more jollyold coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman's life forme: and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.'

'I should like that well enough, dear,' repliedCharlotte; 'but tills ain't to be emptied everyday, and people to get clear off after it.'

'Tills be blowed!' said Mr. Claypole; 'there'smore things besides tills to be emptied.'

'What do you mean?' asked his companion.

'Pockets, women's ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!' said Mr. Claypole, rising withthe porter.

'But you can't do all that, dear,' said Charlotte.

'I shall look out to get into company with themas can,' replied Noah. 'They'll be able to makeus useful some way or another. Why, youyourself are worth fifty women; I never seesuch a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yercan be when I let yer.'

'Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!' ex-claimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon hisugly face.

'There, that'll do: don't yer be too affectionate,in case I'm cross with yer,' said Noah, disengag-ing himself with great gravity. 'I should like tobe the captain of some band, and have thewhopping of 'em, and follering 'em about, un-beknown to themselves. That would suit me, ifthere was good profit; and if we could only getin with some gentleman of this sort, I say itwould be cheap at that twenty-pound noteyou've got,—especially as we don't very wellknow how to get rid of it ourselves.'

After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypolelooked into the porter-pot with an aspect ofdeep wisdom; and having well shaken its con-tents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte,and took a draught, wherewith he appearedgreatly refreshed. He was meditating another,

when the sudden opening of the door, and theappearance of a stranger, interrupted him.

The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiablehe looked, and a very low bow he made, as headvanced, and setting himself down at thenearest table, ordered something to drink of thegrinning Barney.

'A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time ofyear,' said Fagin, rubbing his hands. 'From thecountry, I see, sir?'

'How do yer see that?' asked Noah Claypole.

'We have not so much dust as that in London,'replied Fagin, pointing from Noah's shoes tothose of his companion, and from them to thetwo bundles.

'Yer a sharp feller,' said Noah. 'Ha! ha! onlyhear that, Charlotte!'

'Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,'replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confiden-tial whisper; 'and that's the truth.'

Fagin followed up this remark by striking theside of his nose with his right forefinger,—agesture which Noah attempted to imitate,though not with complete success, in conse-quence of his own nose not being large enoughfor the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed tointerpret the endeavour as expressing a perfectcoincidence with his opinion, and put about theliquor which Barney reappeared with, in a veryfriendly manner.

'Good stuff that,' observed Mr. Claypole,smacking his lips.

'Dear!' said Fagin. 'A man need be always emp-tying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule,or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if hedrinks it regularly.'

Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract fromhis own remarks than he fell back in his chair,and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with acountenance of ashy paleness and excessiveterror.

'Don't mind me, my dear,' said Fagin, drawinghis chair closer. 'Ha! ha! it was lucky it wasonly me that heard you by chance. It was verylucky it was only me.'

'I didn't take it,' stammered Noah, no longerstretching out his legs like an independent gen-tleman, but coiling them up as well as he couldunder his chair; 'it was all her doing; yer've gotit now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.'

'No matter who's got it, or who did it, my dear,'replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with ahawk's eye at the girl and the two bundles. 'I'min that way myself, and I like you for it.'

'In what way?' asked Mr. Claypole, a little re-covering.

'In that way of business,' rejoined Fagin; 'and soare the people of the house. You've hit the rightnail upon the head, and are as safe here as youcould be. There is not a safer place in all thistown than is the Cripples; that is, when I like tomake it so. And I have taken a fancy to you andthe young woman; so I've said the word, andyou may make your minds easy.'

Noah Claypole's mind might have been at easeafter this assurance, but his body certainly wasnot; for he shuffled and writhed about, intovarious uncouth positions: eyeing his newfriend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspi-cion.

'I'll tell you more,' said Fagin, after he had reas-sured the girl, by dint of friendly nods andmuttered encouragements. 'I have got a friendthat I think can gratify your darling wish, and

put you in the right way, where you can takewhatever department of the business you thinkwill suit you best at first, and be taught all theothers.'

'Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,' repliedNoah.

'What advantage would it be to me to be any-thing else?' inquired Fagin, shrugging hisshoulders. 'Here! Let me have a word with yououtside.'

'There's no occasion to trouble ourselves tomove,' said Noah, getting his legs by gradualdegrees abroad again. 'She'll take the luggageupstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bun-dles.'

This mandate, which had been delivered withgreat majesty, was obeyed without the slightestdemur; and Charlotte made the best of her way

off with the packages while Noah held the dooropen and watched her out.

'She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?' heasked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of akeeper who had tamed some wild animal.

'Quite perfect,' rejoined Fagin, clapping him onthe shoulder. 'You're a genius, my dear.'

'Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here,'replied Noah. 'But, I say, she'll be back if yerlose time.'

'Now, what do you think?' said Fagin. 'If youwas to like my friend, could you do better thanjoin him?'

'Is he in a good way of business; that's where itis!' responded Noah, winking one of his littleeyes.

'The top of the tree; employs a power of hands;has the very best society in the profession.'

'Regular town-maders?' asked Mr. Claypole.

'Not a countryman among 'em; and I don'tthink he'd take you, even on my recommenda-tion, if he didn't run rather short of assistantsjust now,' replied Fagin.

'Should I have to hand over?' said Noah, slap-ping his breeches-pocket.

'It couldn't possibly be done without,' repliedFagin, in a most decided manner.

'Twenty pound, though—it's a lot of money!'

'Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of,'retorted Fagin. 'Number and date taken, I sup-pose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It'snot worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad,and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in themarket.'

'When could I see him?' asked Noah doubt-fully.

'To-morrow morning.'

'Where?'

'Here.'

'Um!' said Noah. 'What's the wages?'

'Live like a gentleman—board and lodging,pipes and spirits free—half of all you earn, andhalf of all the young woman earns,' replied Mr.Fagin.

Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity wasnone of the least comprehensive, would haveacceded even to these glowing terms, had hebeen a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; butas he recollected that, in the event of his refusal,it was in the power of his new acquaintance togive him up to justice immediately (and moreunlikely things had come to pass), he graduallyrelented, and said he thought that would suithim.

'But, yer see,' observed Noah, 'as she will beable to do a good deal, I should like to takesomething very light.'

'A little fancy work?' suggested Fagin.

'Ah! something of that sort,' replied Noah.'What do you think would suit me now? Some-thing not too trying for the strength, and notvery dangerous, you know. That's the sort ofthing!'

'I heard you talk of something in the spy wayupon the others, my dear,' said Fagin. 'Myfriend wants somebody who would do thatwell, very much.'

'Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mindturning my hand to it sometimes,' rejoined Mr.Claypole slowly; 'but it wouldn't pay by itself,you know.'

'That's true!' observed the Jew, ruminating orpretending to ruminate. 'No, it might not.'

'What do you think, then?' asked Noah, anx-iously regarding him. 'Something in the sneak-ing way, where it was pretty sure work, andnot much more risk than being at home.'

'What do you think of the old ladies?' askedFagin. 'There's a good deal of money made insnatching their bags and parcels, and runninground the corner.'

'Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratchsometimes?' asked Noah, shaking his head. 'Idon't think that would answer my purpose.Ain't there any other line open?'

'Stop!' said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah'sknee. 'The kinchin lay.'

'What's that?' demanded Mr. Claypole.

'The kinchins, my dear,' said Fagin, 'is theyoung children that's sent on errands by theirmothers, with sixpences and shillings; and thelay is just to take their money away—they'vealways got it ready in their hands,—then knock'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, asif there were nothing else the matter but a childfallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!'

'Ha! ha!' roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up hislegs in an ecstasy. 'Lord, that's the very thing!'

'To be sure it is,' replied Fagin; 'and you canhave a few good beats chalked out in CamdenTown, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoodslike that, where they're always going errands;and you can upset as many kinchins as youwant, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!'

With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in theside, and they joined in a burst of laughter bothlong and loud.

'Well, that's all right!' said Noah, when he hadrecovered himself, and Charlotte had returned.'What time to-morrow shall we say?'

'Will ten do?' asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Clay-pole nodded assent, 'What name shall I tell mygood friend.'

'Mr. Bolter,' replied Noah, who had preparedhimself for such emergency. 'Mr. Morris Bolter.This is Mrs. Bolter.'

'Mrs. Bolter's humble servant,' said Fagin, bow-ing with grotesque politeness. 'I hope I shallknow her better very shortly.'

'Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?' thun-dered Mr. Claypole.

'Yes, Noah, dear!' replied Mrs. Bolter, extend-ing her hand.

'She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way oftalking,' said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole,turning to Fagin. 'You understand?'

'Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,' replied Fa-gin, telling the truth for once. 'Good-night!Good-night!'

With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Faginwent his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking hisgood lady's attention, proceeded to enlightenher relative to the arrangement he had made,with all that haughtiness and air of superiority,becoming, not only a member of the sternersex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dig-nity of a special appointment on the kinchinlay, in London and its vicinity.

CHAPTER XLIII

WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ART-FUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE

'And so it was you that was your own friend,was it?' asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter,when, by virtue of the compact entered intobetween them, he had removed next day toFagin's house. ''Cod, I thought as much lastnight!'

'Every man's his own friend, my dear,' repliedFagin, with his most insinuating grin. 'He has-n't as good a one as himself anywhere.'

'Except sometimes,' replied Morris Bolter, as-suming the air of a man of the world. 'Somepeople are nobody's enemies but their own, yerknow.'

'Don't believe that,' said Fagin. 'When a man'shis own enemy, it's only because he's too much

his own friend; not because he's careful for eve-rybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain'tsuch a thing in nature.'

'There oughn't to be, if there is,' replied Mr.Bolter.

'That stands to reason. Some conjurers say thatnumber three is the magic number, and somesay number seven. It's neither, my friend, nei-ther. It's number one.

'Ha! ha!' cried Mr. Bolter. 'Number one forever.'

'In a little community like ours, my dear,' saidFagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this posi-tion, 'we have a general number one, withoutconsidering me too as the same, and all theother young people.'

'Oh, the devil!' exclaimed Mr. Bolter.

'You see,' pursued Fagin, affecting to disregardthis interruption, 'we are so mixed up together,and identified in our interests, that it must beso. For instance, it's your object to take care ofnumber one—meaning yourself.'

'Certainly,' replied Mr. Bolter. 'Yer about rightthere.'

'Well! You can't take care of yourself, numberone, without taking care of me, number one.'

'Number two, you mean,' said Mr. Bolter, whowas largely endowed with the quality of self-ishness.

'No, I don't!' retorted Fagin. 'I'm of the sameimportance to you, as you are to yourself.'

'I say,' interrupted Mr. Bolter, 'yer a very niceman, and I'm very fond of yer; but we ain'tquite so thick together, as all that comes to.'

'Only think,' said Fagin, shrugging his shoul-ders, and stretching out his hands; 'only con-sider. You've done what's a very pretty thing,and what I love you for doing; but what at thesame time would put the cravat round yourthroat, that's so very easily tied and so verydifficult to unloose—in plain English, the hal-ter!'

Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as ifhe felt it inconveniently tight; and murmuredan assent, qualified in tone but not in sub-stance.

'The gallows,' continued Fagin, 'the gallows,my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which pointsout a very short and sharp turning that hasstopped many a bold fellow's career on thebroad highway. To keep in the easy road, andkeep it at a distance, is object number one withyou.'

'Of course it is,' replied Mr. Bolter. 'What do yertalk about such things for?'

'Only to show you my meaning clearly,' saidthe Jew, raising his eyebrows. 'To be able to dothat, you depend upon me. To keep my littlebusiness all snug, I depend upon you. The firstis your number one, the second my numberone. The more you value your number one, themore careful you must be of mine; so we comeat last to what I told you at first—that a regardfor number one holds us all together, and mustdo so, unless we would all go to pieces in com-pany.'

'That's true,' rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully.'Oh! yer a cunning old codger!'

Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute tohis powers was no mere compliment, but thathe had really impressed his recruit with a senseof his wily genius, which it was most importantthat he should entertain in the outset of their

acquaintance. To strengthen an impression sodesirable and useful, he followed up the blowby acquainting him, in some detail, with themagnitude and extent of his operations; blend-ing truth and fiction together, as best served hispurpose; and bringing both to bear, with somuch art, that Mr. Bolter's respect visibly in-creased, and became tempered, at the sametime, with a degree of wholesome fear, which itwas highly desirable to awaken.

'It's this mutual trust we have in each other thatconsoles me under heavy losses,' said Fagin.'My best hand was taken from me, yesterdaymorning.'

'You don't mean to say he died?' cried Mr.Bolter.

'No, no,' replied Fagin, 'not so bad as that. Notquite so bad.'

'What, I suppose he was—'

'Wanted,' interposed Fagin. 'Yes, he waswanted.'

'Very particular?' inquired Mr. Bolter.

'No,' replied Fagin, 'not very. He was chargedwith attempting to pick a pocket, and theyfound a silver snuff-box on him,—his own, mydear, his own, for he took snuff himself, andwas very fond of it. They remanded him till to-day, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah!he was worth fifty boxes, and I'd give the priceof as many to have him back. You should haveknown the Dodger, my dear; you should haveknown the Dodger.'

'Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don't yerthink so?' said Mr. Bolter.

'I'm doubtful about it,' replied Fagin, with asigh. 'If they don't get any fresh evidence, it'llonly be a summary conviction, and we shallhave him back again after six weeks or so; but,

if they do, it's a case of lagging. They knowwhat a clever lad he is; he'll be a lifer. They'llmake the Artful nothing less than a lifer.'

'What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?'demanded Mr. Bolter. 'What's the good of talk-ing in that way to me; why don't yer speak soas I can understand yer?'

Fagin was about to translate these mysteriousexpressions into the vulgar tongue; and, beinginterpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been in-formed that they represented that combinationof words, 'transportation for life,' when the dia-logue was cut short by the entry of MasterBates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets,and his face twisted into a look of semi-comicalwoe.

'It's all up, Fagin,' said Charley, when he andhis new companion had been made known toeach other.

'What do you mean?'

'They've found the gentleman as owns the box;two or three more's a coming to 'dentify him;and the Artful's booked for a passage out,' re-plied Master Bates. 'I must have a full suit ofmourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit himin, afore he sets out upon his travels. To thinkof Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the Dodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a com-mon twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I neverthought he'd a done it under a gold watch,chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn'the rob some rich old gentleman of all his wal-ables, and go out as a gentleman, and not like acommon prig, without no honour nor glory!'

With this expression of feeling for his unfortu-nate friend, Master Bates sat himself on thenearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and de-spondency.

'What do you talk about his having neitherhonour nor glory for!' exclaimed Fagin, dartingan angry look at his pupil. 'Wasn't he alwaysthe top-sawyer among you all! Is there one ofyou that could touch him or come near him onany scent! Eh?'

'Not one,' replied Master Bates, in a voice ren-dered husky by regret; 'not one.'

'Then what do you talk of?' replied Fagin an-grily; 'what are you blubbering for?'

''Cause it isn't on the rec-ord, is it?' said Char-ley, chafed into perfect defiance of his vener-able friend by the current of his regrets; ''causeit can't come out in the 'dictment; 'cause no-body will never know half of what he was.How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar?P'raps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye,wot a blow it is!'

'Ha! ha!' cried Fagin, extending his right hand,and turning to Mr. Bolter in a fit of chucklingwhich shook him as though he had the palsy;'see what a pride they take in their profession,my dear. Ain't it beautiful?'

Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after con-templating the grief of Charley Bates for someseconds with evident satisfaction, stepped upto that young gentleman and patted him on theshoulder.

'Never mind, Charley,' said Fagin soothingly;'it'll come out, it'll be sure to come out. They'llall know what a clever fellow he was; he'llshow it himself, and not disgrace his old palsand teachers. Think how young he is too! Whata distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his timeof life!'

'Well, it is a honour that is!' said Charley, a littleconsoled.

'He shall have all he wants,' continued the Jew.'He shall be kept in the Stone Jug, Charley, likea gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beerevery day, and money in his pocket to pitchand toss with, if he can't spend it.'

'No, shall he though?' cried Charley Bates.

'Ay, that he shall,' replied Fagin, 'and we'll havea big-wig, Charley: one that's got the greatestgift of the gab: to carry on his defence; and heshall make a speech for himself too, if he likes;and we'll read it all in the papers—"ArtfulDodger—shrieks of laughter—here the courtwas convulsed"—eh, Charley, eh?'

'Ha! ha!' laughed Master Bates, 'what a lark thatwould be, wouldn't it, Fagin? I say, how theArtful would bother 'em wouldn't he?'

'Would!' cried Fagin. 'He shall—he will!'

'Ah, to be sure, so he will,' repeated Charley,rubbing his hands.

'I think I see him now,' cried the Jew, bendinghis eyes upon his pupil.

'So do I,' cried Charley Bates. 'Ha! ha! ha! so doI. I see it all afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin.What a game! What a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkinsaddressing of 'em as intimate and comfortableas if he was the judge's own son making aspeech arter dinner—ha! ha! ha!'

In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured hisyoung friend's eccentric disposition, that Mas-ter Bates, who had at first been disposed toconsider the imprisoned Dodger rather in thelight of a victim, now looked upon him as thechief actor in a scene of most uncommon andexquisite humour, and felt quite impatient forthe arrival of the time when his old companion

should have so favourable an opportunity ofdisplaying his abilities.

'We must know how he gets on to-day, bysome handy means or other,' said Fagin. 'Letme think.'

'Shall I go?' asked Charley.

'Not for the world,' replied Fagin. 'Are youmad, my dear, stark mad, that you'd walk intothe very place where—No, Charley, no. One isenough to lose at a time.'

'You don't mean to go yourself, I suppose?' saidCharley with a humorous leer.

'That wouldn't quite fit,' replied Fagin shakinghis head.

'Then why don't you send this new cove?'asked Master Bates, laying his hand on Noah'sarm. 'Nobody knows him.'

'Why, if he didn't mind—' observed Fagin.

'Mind!' interposed Charley. 'What should hehave to mind?'

'Really nothing, my dear,' said Fagin, turning toMr. Bolter, 'really nothing.'

'Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,' observedNoah, backing towards the door, and shakinghis head with a kind of sober alarm. 'No, no—none of that. It's not in my department, thatain't.'

'Wot department has he got, Fagin?' inquiredMaster Bates, surveying Noah's lank form withmuch disgust. 'The cutting away when there'sanything wrong, and the eating all the wittleswhen there's everything right; is that hisbranch?'

'Never mind,' retorted Mr. Bolter; 'and don't yertake liberties with yer superiors, little boy, oryer'll find yerself in the wrong shop.'

Master Bates laughed so vehemently at thismagnificent threat, that it was some time beforeFagin could interpose, and represent to Mr.Bolter that he incurred no possible danger invisiting the police-office; that, inasmuch as noaccount of the little affair in which he had en-gaged, nor any description of his person, hadyet been forwarded to the metropolis, it wasvery probable that he was not even suspectedof having resorted to it for shelter; and that, ifhe were properly disguised, it would be as safea spot for him to visit as any in London, inas-much as it would be, of all places, the very last,to which he could be supposed likely to resortof his own free will.

Persuaded, in part, by these representations,but overborne in a much greater degree by hisfear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented,

with a very bad grace, to undertake the expedi-tion. By Fagin's directions, he immediately sub-stituted for his own attire, a waggoner's frock,velveteen breeches, and leather leggings: all ofwhich articles the Jew had at hand. He waslikewise furnished with a felt hat well gar-nished with turnpike tickets; and a carter'swhip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter intothe office, as some country fellow from CoventGarden market might be supposed to do for thegratification of his curiousity; and as he was asawkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow asneed be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that hewould look the part to perfection.

These arrangements completed, he was in-formed of the necessary signs and tokens bywhich to recognise the Artful Dodger, and wasconveyed by Master Bates through dark andwinding ways to within a very short distance ofBow Street. Having described the precise situa-tion of the office, and accompanied it with co-

pious directions how he was to walk straightup the passage, and when he got into the side,and pull off his hat as he went into the room,Charley Bates bade him hurry on alone, andpromised to bide his return on the spot of theirparting.

Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the readerpleases, punctually followed the directions hehad received, which—Master Bates beingpretty well acquainted with the locality—wereso exact that he was enabled to gain the magis-terial presence without asking any question, ormeeting with any interruption by the way.

He found himself jostled among a crowd ofpeople, chiefly women, who were huddled to-gether in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper endof which was a raised platform railed off fromthe rest, with a dock for the prisoners on theleft hand against the wall, a box for the wit-nesses in the middle, and a desk for the magis-trates on the right; the awful locality last

named, being screened off by a partition whichconcealed the bench from the common gaze,and left the vulgar to imagine (if they could)the full majesty of justice.

There were only a couple of women in thedock, who were nodding to their admiringfriends, while the clerk read some depositionsto a couple of policemen and a man in plainclothes who leant over the table. A jailer stoodreclining against the dock-rail, tapping his noselistlessly with a large key, except when he re-pressed an undue tendency to conversationamong the idlers, by proclaiming silence; orlooked sternly up to bid some woman 'Takethat baby out,' when the gravity of justice wasdisturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in themother's shawl, from some meagre infant. Theroom smelt close and unwholesome; the wallswere dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling black-ened. There was an old smoky bust over themantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the

dock—the only thing present, that seemed togo on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, oran habitual acquaintance with both, had left ataint on all the animate matter, hardly less un-pleasant than the thick greasy scum on everyinanimate object that frowned upon it.

Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger;but although there were several women whowould have done very well for that distin-guished character's mother or sister, and morethan one man who might be supposed to bear astrong resemblance to his father, nobody at allanswering the description given him of Mr.Dawkins was to be seen. He waited in a state ofmuch suspense and uncertainty until thewomen, being committed for trial, went flaunt-ing out; and then was quickly relieved by theappearance of another prisoner who he felt atonce could be no other than the object of hisvisit.

It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling intothe office with the big coat sleeves tucked up asusual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat inhis right hand, preceded the jailer, with a roll-ing gait altogether indescribable, and, takinghis place in the dock, requested in an audiblevoice to know what he was placed in that 'eredisgraceful sitivation for.

'Hold your tongue, will you?' said the jailer.

'I'm an Englishman, ain't I?' rejoined theDodger. 'Where are my priwileges?'

'You'll get your privileges soon enough,' re-torted the jailer, 'and pepper with 'em.'

'We'll see wot the Secretary of State for theHome Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if Idon't,' replied Mr. Dawkins. 'Now then! Wot isthis here business? I shall thank themadg'strates to dispose of this here little affair,and not to keep me while they read the paper,

for I've got an appointment with a genelman inthe City, and as I am a man of my word andwery punctual in business matters, he'll goaway if I ain't there to my time, and then pr'apsther won't be an action for damage againstthem as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!'

At this point, the Dodger, with a show of beingvery particular with a view to proceedings tobe had thereafter, desired the jailer to commu-nicate 'the names of them two files as was onthe bench.' Which so tickled the spectators, thatthey laughed almost as heartily as Master Batescould have done if he had heard the request.

'Silence there!' cried the jailer.

'What is this?' inquired one of the magistrates.

'A pick-pocketing case, your worship.'

'Has the boy ever been here before?'

'He ought to have been, a many times,' repliedthe jailer. 'He has been pretty well everywhereelse. I know him well, your worship.'

'Oh! you know me, do you?' cried the Artful,making a note of the statement. 'Wery good.That's a case of deformation of character, anyway.'

Here there was another laugh, and another cryof silence.

'Now then, where are the witnesses?' said theclerk.

'Ah! that's right,' added the Dodger. 'Where arethey? I should like to see 'em.'

This wish was immediately gratified, for a po-liceman stepped forward who had seen theprisoner attempt the pocket of an unknowngentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a hand-kerchief therefrom, which, being a very old

one, he deliberately put back again, after tryingit on his own countenance. For this reason, hetook the Dodger into custody as soon as hecould get near him, and the said Dodger, beingsearched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon thelid. This gentleman had been discovered onreference to the Court Guide, and being thenand there present, swore that the snuff-box washis, and that he had missed it on the previousday, the moment he had disengaged himselffrom the crowd before referred to. He had alsoremarked a young gentleman in the throng,particularly active in making his way about,and that young gentleman was the prisonerbefore him.

'Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?'said the magistrate.

'I wouldn't abase myself by descending to holdno conversation with him,' replied the Dodger.

'Have you anything to say at all?'

'Do you hear his worship ask if you've any-thing to say?' inquired the jailer, nudging thesilent Dodger with his elbow.

'I beg your pardon,' said the Dodger, lookingup with an air of abstraction. 'Did you redressyourself to me, my man?'

'I never see such an out-and-out young waga-bond, your worship,' observed the officer witha grin. 'Do you mean to say anything, youyoung shaver?'

'No,' replied the Dodger, 'not here, for this ain'tthe shop for justice: besides which, my attorneyis a-breakfasting this morning with the WicePresident of the House of Commons; but I shallhave something to say elsewhere, and so willhe, and so will a wery numerous and 'spectablecircle of acquaintance as'll make them beakswish they'd never been born, or that they'd got

their footmen to hang 'em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let 'em come out this morningto try it on upon me. I'll—'

'There! He's fully committed!' interposed theclerk. 'Take him away.'

'Come on,' said the jailer.

'Oh ah! I'll come on,' replied the Dodger, brush-ing his hat with the palm of his hand. 'Ah! (tothe Bench) it's no use your looking frightened; Iwon't show you no mercy, not a ha'porth of it.You'll pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn't beyou for something! I wouldn't go free, now, ifyou was to fall down on your knees and askme. Here, carry me off to prison! Take meaway!'

With these last words, the Dodger sufferedhimself to be led off by the collar; threatening,till he got into the yard, to make a parliamen-

tary business of it; and then grinning in theofficer's face, with great glee and self-approval.

Having seen him locked up by himself in a lit-tle cell, Noah made the best of his way back towhere he had left Master Bates. After waitinghere some time, he was joined by that younggentleman, who had prudently abstained fromshowing himself until he had looked carefullyabroad from a snug retreat, and ascertainedthat his new friend had not been followed byany impertinent person.

The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr.Fagin the animating news that the Dodger wasdoing full justice to his bringing-up, and estab-lishing for himself a glorious reputation.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TOREDEEM HER PLEDGETO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.

Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning anddissimulation, the girl Nancy could not whollyconceal the effect which the knowledge of thestep she had taken, wrought upon her mind.She remembered that both the crafty Jew andthe brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes,which had been hidden from all others: in thefull confidence that she was trustworthy andbeyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile asthose schemes were, desperate as were theiroriginators, and bitter as were her feelings to-wards Fagin, who had led her, step by step,deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crimeand misery, whence was no escape; still, therewere times when, even towards him, she feltsome relenting, lest her disclosure should bring

him within the iron grasp he had so longeluded, and he should fall at last—richly as hemerited such a fate—by her hand.

But, these were the mere wanderings of a mindunable wholly to detach itself from old com-panions and associations, though enabled to fixitself steadily on one object, and resolved not tobe turned aside by any consideration. Her fearsfor Sikes would have been more powerful in-ducements to recoil while there was yet time;but she had stipulated that her secret should berigidly kept, she had dropped no clue whichcould lead to his discovery, she had refused,even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt andwretchedness that encompasses her—and whatmore could she do! She was resolved.

Though all her mental struggles terminated inthis conclusion, they forced themselves uponher, again and again, and left their traces too.She grew pale and thin, even within a fewdays. At times, she took no heed of what was

passing before her, or no part in conversationswhere once, she would have been the loudest.At other times, she laughed without merriment,and was noisy without a moment afterwards—she sat silent and dejected, brooding with herhead upon her hands, while the very effort bywhich she roused herself, told, more forciblythan even these indications, that she was ill atease, and that her thoughts were occupied withmatters very different and distant from those inthe course of discussion by her companions.

It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearestchurch struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew weretalking, but they paused to listen. The girllooked up from the low seat on which shecrouched, and listened too. Eleven.

'An hour this side of midnight,' said Sikes, rais-ing the blind to look out and returning to hisseat. 'Dark and heavy it is too. A good night forbusiness this.'

'Ah!' replied Fagin. 'What a pity, Bill, my dear,that there's none quite ready to be done.'

'You're right for once,' replied Sikes gruffly. 'Itis a pity, for I'm in the humour too.'

Fagin sighed, and shook his head despond-ingly.

'We must make up for lost time when we've gotthings into a good train. That's all I know,' saidSikes.

'That's the way to talk, my dear,' replied Fagin,venturing to pat him on the shoulder. 'It doesme good to hear you.'

'Does you good, does it!' cried Sikes. 'Well, sobe it.'

'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Fagin, as if he were re-lieved by even this concession. 'You're likeyourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself.'

'I don't feel like myself when you lay that with-ered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,'said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand.

'It make you nervous, Bill,—reminds you ofbeing nabbed, does it?' said Fagin, determinednot to be offended.

'Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,'returned Sikes. 'There never was another manwith such a face as yours, unless it was yourfather, and I suppose he is singeing his grizzledred beard by this time, unless you camestraight from the old 'un without any father atall betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, abit.'

Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but,pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his fingertowards Nancy, who had taken advantage ofthe foregoing conversation to put on her bon-net, and was now leaving the room.

'Hallo!' cried Sikes. 'Nance. Where's the gal go-ing to at this time of night?'

'Not far.'

'What answer's that?' retorted Sikes. 'Do youhear me?'

'I don't know where,' replied the girl.

'Then I do,' said Sikes, more in the spirit of ob-stinacy than because he had any real objectionto the girl going where she listed. 'Nowhere. Sitdown.'

'I'm not well. I told you that before,' rejoinedthe girl. 'I want a breath of air.'

'Put your head out of the winder,' replied Sikes.

'There's not enough there,' said the girl. 'I wantit in the street.'

'Then you won't have it,' replied Sikes. Withwhich assurance he rose, locked the door, tookthe key out, and pulling her bonnet from herhead, flung it up to the top of an old press.'There,' said the robber. 'Now stop quietlywhere you are, will you?'

'It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keepme,' said the girl turning very pale. 'What doyou mean, Bill? Do you know what you're do-ing?'

'Know what I'm—Oh!' cried Sikes, turning toFagin, 'she's out of her senses, you know, or shedaren't talk to me in that way.'

'You'll drive me on the something desperate,'muttered the girl placing both hands upon herbreast, as though to keep down by force someviolent outbreak. 'Let me go, will you,—thisminute—this instant.'

'No!' said Sikes.

'Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'llbe better for him. Do you hear me?' criedNancy stamping her foot upon the ground.

'Hear you!' repeated Sikes turning round in hischair to confront her. 'Aye! And if I hear youfor half a minute longer, the dog shall havesuch a grip on your throat as'll tear some of thatscreaming voice out. Wot has come over you,you jade! Wot is it?'

'Let me go,' said the girl with great earnestness;then sitting herself down on the floor, beforethe door, she said, 'Bill, let me go; you don'tknow what you are doing. You don't, indeed.For only one hour—do—do!'

'Cut my limbs off one by one!' cried Sikes, seiz-ing her roughly by the arm, 'If I don't think thegal's stark raving mad. Get up.'

'Not till you let me go—not till you let me go—Never—never!' screamed the girl. Sikes looked

on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, andsuddenly pinioning her hands dragged her,struggling and wrestling with him by the way,into a small room adjoining, where he sat him-self on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair,held her down by force. She struggled and im-plored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck,and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased tocontest the point any further. With a caution,backed by many oaths, to make no more effortsto go out that night, Sikes left her to recover atleisure and rejoined Fagin.

'Whew!' said the housebreaker wiping the per-spiration from his face. 'Wot a precious strangegal that is!'

'You may say that, Bill,' replied Fagin thought-fully. 'You may say that.'

'Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?' asked Sikes. 'Come;

you should know her better than me. Wot doesit mean?'

'Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, mydear.'

'Well, I suppose it is,' growled Sikes. 'I thoughtI had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever.'

'Worse,' said Fagin thoughtfully. 'I never knewher like this, for such a little cause.'

'Nor I,' said Sikes. 'I think she's got a touch ofthat fever in her blood yet, and it won't comeout—eh?'

'Like enough.'

'I'll let her a little blood, without troubling thedoctor, if she's took that way again,' said Sikes.

Fagin nodded an expressive approval of thismode of treatment.

'She was hanging about me all day, and nighttoo, when I was stretched on my back; and you,like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept your-self aloof,' said Sikes. 'We was poor too, all thetime, and I think, one way or other, it's worriedand fretted her; and that being shut up here solong has made her restless—eh?'

'That's it, my dear,' replied the Jew in a whis-per. 'Hush!'

As he uttered these words, the girl herself ap-peared and resumed her former seat. Her eyeswere swollen and red; she rocked herself to andfro; tossed her head; and, after a little time,burst out laughing.

'Why, now she's on the other tack!' exclaimedSikes, turning a look of excessive surprise onhis companion.

Fagin nodded to him to take no further noticejust then; and, in a few minutes, the girl sub-

sided into her accustomed demeanour. Whis-pering Sikes that there was no fear of her re-lapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade himgood-night. He paused when he reached theroom-door, and looking round, asked if some-body would light him down the dark stairs.

'Light him down,' said Sikes, who was fillinghis pipe. 'It's a pity he should break his neckhimself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Showhim a light.'

Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with acandle. When they reached the passage, he laidhis finger on his lip, and drawing close to thegirl, said, in a whisper.

'What is it, Nancy, dear?'

'What do you mean?' replied the girl, in thesame tone.

'The reason of all this,' replied Fagin. 'If he'—hepointed with his skinny fore-finger up thestairs—'is so hard with you (he's a brute,Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you—'

'Well?' said the girl, as Fagin paused, with hismouth almost touching her ear, and his eyeslooking into hers.

'No matter just now. We'll talk of this again.You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunchfriend. I have the means at hand, quiet andclose. If you want revenge on those that treatyou like a dog—like a dog! worse than his dog,for he humours him sometimes—come to me. Isay, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day,but you know me of old, Nance.'

'I know you well,' replied the girl, withoutmanifesting the least emotion. 'Good-night.'

She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay hishand on hers, but said good-night again, in a

steady voice, and, answering his parting lookwith a nod of intelligence, closed the door be-tween them.

Fagin walked towards his home, intent uponthe thoughts that were working within hisbrain. He had conceived the idea—not fromwhat had just passed though that had tended toconfirm him, but slowly and by degrees—thatNancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality,had conceived an attachment for some newfriend. Her altered manner, her repeated ab-sences from home alone, her comparative indif-ference to the interests of the gang for whichshe had once been so zealous, and, added tothese, her desperate impatience to leave homethat night at a particular hour, all favoured thesupposition, and rendered it, to him at least,almost matter of certainty. The object of thisnew liking was not among his myrmidons. Hewould be a valuable acquisition with such an

assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin ar-gued) be secured without delay.

There was another, and a darker object, to begained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffiantaunts had not galled Fagin the less, becausethe wounds were hidden. The girl must know,well, that if she shook him off, she could neverbe safe from his fury, and that it would besurely wreaked—to the maiming of limbs, orperhaps the loss of life—on the object of hermore recent fancy.

'With a little persuasion,' thought Fagin, 'whatmore likely than that she would consent to poi-son him? Women have done such things, andworse, to secure the same object before now.There would be the dangerous villain: the manI hate: gone; another secured in his place; andmy influence over the girl, with a knowledge ofthis crime to back it, unlimited.'

These things passed through the mind of Fagin,during the short time he sat alone, in thehousebreaker's room; and with them upper-most in his thoughts, he had taken the oppor-tunity afterwards afforded him, of soundingthe girl in the broken hints he threw out at part-ing. There was no expression of surprise, noassumption of an inability to understand hismeaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Herglance at parting showed that.

But perhaps she would recoil from a plot totake the life of Sikes, and that was one of thechief ends to be attained. 'How,' thought Fagin,as he crept homeward, 'can I increase my influ-ence with her? What new power can I acquire?'

Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, withoutextracting a confession from herself, he laid awatch, discovered the object of her altered re-gard, and threatened to reveal the whole his-tory to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common

fear) unless she entered into his designs, couldhe not secure her compliance?

'I can,' said Fagin, almost aloud. 'She durst notrefuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life!I have it all. The means are ready, and shall beset to work. I shall have you yet!'

He cast back a dark look, and a threateningmotion of the hand, towards the spot where hehad left the bolder villain; and went on his way:busying his bony hands in the folds of his tat-tered garment, which he wrenched tightly inhis grasp, as though there were a hated enemycrushed with every motion of his fingers.

CHAPTER XLV

NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BYFAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION

The old man was up, betimes, next morning,and waited impatiently for the appearance ofhis new associate, who after a delay thatseemed interminable, at length presented him-self, and commenced a voracious assault on thebreakfast.

'Bolter,' said Fagin, drawing up a chair andseating himself opposite Morris Bolter.

'Well, here I am,' returned Noah. 'What's thematter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till Ihave done eating. That's a great fault in thisplace. Yer never get time enough over yermeals.'

'You can talk as you eat, can't you?' said Fagin,cursing his dear young friend's greediness fromthe very bottom of his heart.

'Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,'said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread.'Where's Charlotte?'

'Out,' said Fagin. 'I sent her out this morningwith the other young woman, because I wantedus to be alone.'

'Oh!' said Noah. 'I wish yer'd ordered her tomake some buttered toast first. Well. Talkaway. Yer won't interrupt me.'

There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anythinginterrupting him, as he had evidently sat downwith a determination to do a great deal of busi-ness.

'You did well yesterday, my dear,' said Fagin.'Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence half-

penny on the very first day! The kinchin laywill be a fortune to you.'

'Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and amilk-can,' said Mr. Bolter.

'No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were greatstrokes of genius: but the milk-can was a per-fect masterpiece.'

'Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,' remarkedMr. Bolter complacently. 'The pots I took offairy railings, and the milk-can was standing byitself outside a public-house. I thought it mightget rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know.Eh? Ha! ha! ha!'

Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr.Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series oflarge bites, which finished his first hunk ofbread and butter, and assisted himself to a sec-ond.

'I want you, Bolter,' said Fagin, leaning over thetable, 'to do a piece of work for me, my dear,that needs great care and caution.'

'I say,' rejoined Bolter, 'don't yer go shoving meinto danger, or sending me any more o' yerpolice-offices. That don't suit me, that don't;and so I tell yer.'

'That's not the smallest danger in it—not thevery smallest,' said the Jew; 'it's only to dodge awoman.'

'An old woman?' demanded Mr. Bolter.

'A young one,' replied Fagin.

'I can do that pretty well, I know,' said Bolter. 'Iwas a regular cunning sneak when I was atschool. What am I to dodge her for? Not to—'

'Not to do anything, but to tell me where shegoes, who she sees, and, if possible, what shesays; to remember the street, if it is a street, or

the house, if it is a house; and to bring me backall the information you can.'

'What'll yer give me?' asked Noah, settingdown his cup, and looking his employer, ea-gerly, in the face.

'If you do it well, a pound, my dear. Onepound,' said Fagin, wishing to interest him inthe scent as much as possible. 'And that's whatI never gave yet, for any job of work wherethere wasn't valuable consideration to begained.'

'Who is she?' inquired Noah.

'One of us.'

'Oh Lor!' cried Noah, curling up his nose. 'Yerdoubtful of her, are yer?'

'She has found out some new friends, my dear,and I must know who they are,' replied Fagin.

'I see,' said Noah. 'Just to have the pleasure ofknowing them, if they're respectable people,eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man.'

'I knew you would be,' cried Fagin, elated bythe success of his proposal.

'Of course, of course,' replied Noah. 'Where isshe? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I togo?'

'All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'llpoint her out at the proper time,' said Fagin.'You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.'

That night, and the next, and the next again, thespy sat booted and equipped in his carter'sdress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin.Six nights passed—six long weary nights—andon each, Fagin came home with a disappointedface, and briefly intimated that it was not yettime. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and

with an exultation he could not conceal. It wasSunday.

'She goes abroad to-night,' said Fagin, 'and onthe right errand, I'm sure; for she has beenalone all day, and the man she is afraid of willnot be back much before daybreak. Come withme. Quick!'

Noah started up without saying a word; for theJew was in a state of such intense excitementthat it infected him. They left the house stealth-ily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets,arrived at length before a public-house, whichNoah recognised as the same in which he hadslept, on the night of his arrival in London.

It was past eleven o'clock, and the door wasclosed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagingave a low whistle. They entered, withoutnoise; and the door was closed behind them.

Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substitutingdumb show for words, Fagin, and the youngJew who had admitted them, pointed out thepane of glass to Noah, and signed to him toclimb up and observe the person in the adjoin-ing room.

'Is that the woman?' he asked, scarcely abovehis breath.

Fagin nodded yes.

'I can't see her face well,' whispered Noah. 'Sheis looking down, and the candle is behind her.

'Stay there,' whispered Fagin. He signed toBarney, who withdrew. In an instant, the ladentered the room adjoining, and, under pre-tence of snuffing the candle, moved it in therequired position, and, speaking to the girl,caused her to raise her face.

'I see her now,' cried the spy.

'Plainly?'

'I should know her among a thousand.'

He hastily descended, as the room-dooropened, and the girl came out. Fagin drew himbehind a small partition which was curtainedoff, and they held their breaths as she passedwithin a few feet of their place of concealment,and emerged by the door at which they hadentered.

'Hist!' cried the lad who held the door. 'Dow.'

Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and dartedout.

'To the left,' whispered the lad; 'take the lefthad, and keep od the other side.'

He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, sawthe girl's retreating figure, already at some dis-tance before him. He advanced as near as heconsidered prudent, and kept on the opposite

side of the street, the better to observe her mo-tions. She looked nervously round, twice orthrice, and once stopped to let two men whowere following close behind her, pass on. Sheseemed to gather courage as she advanced, andto walk with a steadier and firmer step. The spypreserved the same relative distance betweenthem, and followed: with his eye upon her.

CHAPTER XLVI

THE APPOINTMENT KEPT

The church clocks chimed three quarters pasteleven, as two figures emerged on LondonBridge. One, which advanced with a swift andrapid step, was that of a woman who lookedeagerly about her as though in quest of someexpected object; the other figure was that of aman, who slunk along in the deepest shadow

he could find, and, at some distance, accom-modated his pace to hers: stopping when shestopped: and as she moved again, creepingstealthily on: but never allowing himself, in theardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her foot-steps. Thus, they crossed the bridge, from theMiddlesex to the Surrey shore, when thewoman, apparently disappointed in her anx-ious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turnedback. The movement was sudden; but he whowatched her, was not thrown off his guard byit; for, shrinking into one of the recesses whichsurmount the piers of the bridge, and leaningover the parapet the better to conceal his figure,he suffered her to pass on the opposite pave-ment. When she was about the same distance inadvance as she had been before, he slippedquietly down, and followed her again. Atnearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped.The man stopped too.

It was a very dark night. The day had been un-favourable, and at that hour and place therewere few people stirring. Such as there were,hurried quickly past: very possibly withoutseeing, but certainly without noticing, eitherthe woman, or the man who kept her in view.Their appearance was not calculated to attractthe importunate regards of such of London'sdestitute population, as chanced to take theirway over the bridge that night in search ofsome cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to laytheir heads; they stood there in silence: neitherspeaking nor spoken to, by any one whopassed.

A mist hung over the river, deepening the redglare of the fires that burnt upon the small craftmoored off the different wharfs, and renderingdarker and more indistinct the murky buildingson the banks. The old smoke-stained store-houses on either side, rose heavy and dull fromthe dense mass of roofs and gables, and

frowned sternly upon water too black to reflecteven their lumbering shapes. The tower of oldSaint Saviour's Church, and the spire of SaintMagnus, so long the giant-warders of the an-cient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but theforest of shipping below bridge, and the thicklyscattered spires of churches above, were nearlyall hidden from sight.

The girl had taken a few restless turns to andfro—closely watched meanwhile by her hiddenobserver—when the heavy bell of St. Paul'stolled for the death of another day. Midnighthad come upon the crowded city. The palace,the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: thechambers of birth and death, of health andsickness, the rigid face of the corpse and thecalm sleep of the child: midnight was uponthem all.

The hour had not struck two minutes, when ayoung lady, accompanied by a grey-haired gen-tleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage

within a short distance of the bridge, and, hav-ing dismissed the vehicle, walked straight to-wards it. They had scarcely set foot upon itspavement, when the girl started, and immedi-ately made towards them.

They walked onward, looking about them withthe air of persons who entertained some veryslight expectation which had little chance ofbeing realised, when they were suddenlyjoined by this new associate. They halted withan exclamation of surprise, but suppressed itimmediately; for a man in the garments of acountryman came close up—brushed againstthem, indeed—at that precise moment.

'Not here,' said Nancy hurriedly, 'I am afraid tospeak to you here. Come away—out of the pub-lic road—down the steps yonder!'

As she uttered these words, and indicated, withher hand, the direction in which she wishedthem to proceed, the countryman looked

round, and roughly asking what they took upthe whole pavement for, passed on.

The steps to which the girl had pointed, werethose which, on the Surrey bank, and on thesame side of the bridge as Saint Saviour'sChurch, form a landing-stairs from the river. Tothis spot, the man bearing the appearance of acountryman, hastened unobserved; and after amoment's survey of the place, he began to de-scend.

These stairs are a part of the bridge; they con-sist of three flights. Just below the end of thesecond, going down, the stone wall on the leftterminates in an ornamental pilaster facing to-wards the Thames. At this point the lower stepswiden: so that a person turning that angle ofthe wall, is necessarily unseen by any others onthe stairs who chance to be above him, if only astep. The countryman looked hastily round,when he reached this point; and as thereseemed no better place of concealment, and, the

tide being out, there was plenty of room, heslipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, andthere waited: pretty certain that they wouldcome no lower, and that even if he could nothear what was said, he could follow themagain, with safety.

So tardily stole the time in this lonely place,and so eager was the spy to penetrate the mo-tives of an interview so different from what hehad been led to expect, that he more than oncegave the matter up for lost, and persuadedhimself, either that they had stopped far above,or had resorted to some entirely different spotto hold their mysterious conversation. He wason the point of emerging from his hiding-place,and regaining the road above, when he heardthe sound of footsteps, and directly afterwardsof voices almost close at his ear.

He drew himself straight upright against thewall, and, scarcely breathing, listened atten-tively.

'This is far enough,' said a voice, which wasevidently that of the gentleman. 'I will not suf-fer the young lady to go any farther. Manypeople would have distrusted you too much tohave come even so far, but you see I am willingto humour you.'

'To humour me!' cried the voice of the girlwhom he had followed. 'You're considerate,indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it's nomatter.'

'Why, for what,' said the gentleman in a kindertone, 'for what purpose can you have broughtus to this strange place? Why not have let mespeak to you, above there, where it is light, andthere is something stirring, instead of bringingus to this dark and dismal hole?'

'I told you before,' replied Nancy, 'that I wasafraid to speak to you there. I don't know whyit is,' said the girl, shuddering, 'but I have such

a fear and dread upon me to-night that I canhardly stand.'

'A fear of what?' asked the gentleman, whoseemed to pity her.

'I scarcely know of what,' replied the girl. 'Iwish I did. Horrible thoughts of death, andshrouds with blood upon them, and a fear thathas made me burn as if I was on fire, have beenupon me all day. I was reading a book to-night,to wile the time away, and the same thingscame into the print.'

'Imagination,' said the gentleman, soothing her.

'No imagination,' replied the girl in a hoarsevoice. 'I'll swear I saw "coffin" written in everypage of the book in large black letters,—aye,and they carried one close to me, in the streetsto-night.'

'There is nothing unusual in that,' said the gen-tleman. 'They have passed me often.'

'Real ones,' rejoined the girl. 'This was not.'

There was something so uncommon in hermanner, that the flesh of the concealed listenercrept as he heard the girl utter these words, andthe blood chilled within him. He had neverexperienced a greater relief than in hearing thesweet voice of the young lady as she beggedher to be calm, and not allow herself to becomethe prey of such fearful fancies.

'Speak to her kindly,' said the young lady to hercompanion. 'Poor creature! She seems to needit.'

'Your haughty religious people would haveheld their heads up to see me as I am to-night,and preached of flames and vengeance,' criedthe girl. 'Oh, dear lady, why ar'n't those whoclaim to be God's own folks as gentle and as

kind to us poor wretches as you, who, havingyouth, and beauty, and all that they have lost,might be a little proud instead of so muchhumbler?'

'Ah!' said the gentleman. 'A Turk turns his face,after washing it well, to the East, when he sayshis prayers; these good people, after givingtheir faces such a rub against the World as totake the smiles off, turn with no less regularity,to the darkest side of Heaven. Between theMussulman and the Pharisee, commend me tothe first!'

These words appeared to be addressed to theyoung lady, and were perhaps uttered with theview of affording Nancy time to recover her-self. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, ad-dressed himself to her.

'You were not here last Sunday night,' he said.

'I couldn't come,' replied Nancy; 'I was kept byforce.'

'By whom?'

'Him that I told the young lady of before.'

'You were not suspected of holding any com-munication with anybody on the subject whichhas brought us here to-night, I hope?' asked theold gentleman.

'No,' replied the girl, shaking her head. 'It's notvery easy for me to leave him unless he knowswhy; I couldn't give him a drink of laudanumbefore I came away.'

'Did he awake before you returned?' inquiredthe gentleman.

'No; and neither he nor any of them suspectme.'

'Good,' said the gentleman. 'Now listen to me.'

'I am ready,' replied the girl, as he paused for amoment.

'This young lady,' the gentleman began, 'hascommunicated to me, and to some other friendswho can be safely trusted, what you told hernearly a fortnight since. I confess to you that Ihad doubts, at first, whether you were to beimplicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believeyou are.'

'I am,' said the girl earnestly.

'I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to youthat I am disposed to trust you, I tell you with-out reserve, that we propose to extort the se-cret, whatever it may be, from the fear of thisman Monks. But if—if—' said the gentleman,'he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot beacted upon as we wish, you must deliver upthe Jew.'

'Fagin,' cried the girl, recoiling.

'That man must be delivered up by you,' saidthe gentleman.

'I will not do it! I will never do it!' replied thegirl. 'Devil that he is, and worse than devil ashe has been to me, I will never do that.'

'You will not?' said the gentleman, who seemedfully prepared for this answer.

'Never!' returned the girl.

'Tell me why?'

'For one reason,' rejoined the girl firmly, 'forone reason, that the lady knows and will standby me in, I know she will, for I have her prom-ise: and for this other reason, besides, that, badlife as he has led, I have led a bad life too; thereare many of us who have kept the same coursestogether, and I'll not turn upon them, whomight—any of them—have turned upon me,but didn't, bad as they are.'

'Then,' said the gentleman, quickly, as if thishad been the point he had been aiming to at-tain; 'put Monks into my hands, and leave himto me to deal with.'

'What if he turns against the others?'

'I promise you that in that case, if the truth isforced from him, there the matter will rest;there must be circumstances in Oliver's littlehistory which it would be painful to drag be-fore the public eye, and if the truth is once elic-ited, they shall go scot free.'

'And if it is not?' suggested the girl.

'Then,' pursued the gentleman, 'this Fagin shallnot be brought to justice without your consent.In such a case I could show you reasons, Ithink, which would induce you to yield it.'

'Have I the lady's promise for that?' asked thegirl.

'You have,' replied Rose. 'My true and faithfulpledge.'

'Monks would never learn how you knew whatyou do?' said the girl, after a short pause.

'Never,' replied the gentleman. 'The intelligenceshould be brought to bear upon him, that hecould never even guess.'

'I have been a liar, and among liars from a littlechild,' said the girl after another interval of si-lence, 'but I will take your words.'

After receiving an assurance from both, thatshe might safely do so, she proceeded in a voiceso low that it was often difficult for the listenerto discover even the purport of what she said,to describe, by name and situation, the public-house whence she had been followed thatnight. From the manner in which she occasion-ally paused, it appeared as if the gentlemanwere making some hasty notes of the informa-

tion she communicated. When she had thor-oughly explained the localities of the place, thebest position from which to watch it withoutexciting observation, and the night and hour onwhich Monks was most in the habit of fre-quenting it, she seemed to consider for a fewmoments, for the purpose of recalling his fea-tures and appearances more forcibly to her rec-ollection.

'He is tall,' said the girl, 'and a strongly mademan, but not stout; he has a lurking walk; andas he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder,first on one side, and then on the other. Don'tforget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head somuch deeper than any other man's, that youmight almost tell him by that alone. His face isdark, like his hair and eyes; and, although hecan't be more than six or eight and twenty,withered and haggard. His lips are often dis-coloured and disfigured with the marks ofteeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes

even bites his hands and covers them withwounds—why did you start?' said the girl,stopping suddenly.

The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner,that he was not conscious of having done so,and begged her to proceed.

'Part of this,' said the girl, 'I have drawn outfrom other people at the house I tell you of, forI have only seen him twice, and both times hewas covered up in a large cloak. I think that'sall I can give you to know him by. Stay though,'she added. 'Upon his throat: so high that youcan see a part of it below his neckerchief whenhe turns his face: there is—'

'A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?' criedthe gentleman.

'How's this?' said the girl. 'You know him!'

The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, andfor a few moments they were so still that thelistener could distinctly hear them breathe.

'I think I do,' said the gentleman, breaking si-lence. 'I should by your description. We shallsee. Many people are singularly like each other.It may not be the same.'

As he expressed himself to this effect, with as-sumed carelessness, he took a step or twonearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tellfrom the distinctness with which he heard himmutter, 'It must be he!'

'Now,' he said, returning: so it seemed by thesound: to the spot where he had stood before,'you have given us most valuable assistance,young woman, and I wish you to be the betterfor it. What can I do to serve you?'

'Nothing,' replied Nancy.

'You will not persist in saying that,' rejoined thegentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kind-ness that might have touched a much harderand more obdurate heart. 'Think now. Tell me.'

'Nothing, sir,' rejoined the girl, weeping. 'Youcan do nothing to help me. I am past all hope,indeed.'

'You put yourself beyond its pale,' said the gen-tleman. 'The past has been a dreary waste withyou, of youthful energies mis-spent, and suchpriceless treasures lavished, as the Creator be-stows but once and never grants again, but, forthe future, you may hope. I do not say that it isin our power to offer you peace of heart andmind, for that must come as you seek it; but aquiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fearto remain here, in some foreign country, it isnot only within the compass of our ability butour most anxious wish to secure you. Beforethe dawn of morning, before this river wakes tothe first glimpse of day-light, you shall be

placed as entirely beyond the reach of yourformer associates, and leave as utter an absenceof all trace behind you, as if you were to disap-pear from the earth this moment. Come! Iwould not have you go back to exchange oneword with any old companion, or take one lookat any old haunt, or breathe the very air whichis pestilence and death to you. Quit them all,while there is time and opportunity!'

'She will be persuaded now,' cried the younglady. 'She hesitates, I am sure.'

'I fear not, my dear,' said the gentleman.

'No sir, I do not,' replied the girl, after a shortstruggle. 'I am chained to my old life. I loatheand hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I musthave gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don'tknow, for if you had spoken to me so, sometime ago, I should have laughed it off. But,' shesaid, looking hastily round, 'this fear comesover me again. I must go home.'

'Home!' repeated the young lady, with greatstress upon the word.

'Home, lady,' rejoined the girl. 'To such a homeas I have raised for myself with the work of mywhole life. Let us part. I shall be watched orseen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service allI ask is, that you leave me, and let me go myway alone.'

'It is useless,' said the gentleman, with a sigh.'We compromise her safety, perhaps, by stayinghere. We may have detained her longer thanshe expected already.'

'Yes, yes,' urged the girl. 'You have.'

'What,' cried the young lady, 'can be the end ofthis poor creature's life!'

'What!' repeated the girl. 'Look before you,lady. Look at that dark water. How many timesdo you read of such as I who spring into the

tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, orbewail them. It may be years hence, or it maybe only months, but I shall come to that at last.'

'Do not speak thus, pray,' returned the younglady, sobbing.

'It will never reach your ears, dear lady, andGod forbid such horrors should!' replied thegirl. 'Good-night, good-night!'

The gentleman turned away.

'This purse,' cried the young lady. 'Take it formy sake, that you may have some resource inan hour of need and trouble.'

'No!' replied the girl. 'I have not done this formoney. Let me have that to think of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: Ishould like to have something—no, no, not aring—your gloves or handkerchief—anythingthat I can keep, as having belonged to you,

sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you.Good-night, good-night!'

The violent agitation of the girl, and the appre-hension of some discovery which would sub-ject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed todetermine the gentleman to leave her, as sherequested.

The sound of retreating footsteps were audibleand the voices ceased.

The two figures of the young lady and hercompanion soon afterwards appeared upon thebridge. They stopped at the summit of thestairs.

'Hark!' cried the young lady, listening. 'Did shecall! I thought I heard her voice.'

'No, my love,' replied Mr. Brownlow, lookingsadly back. 'She has not moved, and will not tillwe are gone.'

Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentlemandrew her arm through his, and led her, withgentle force, away. As they disappeared, thegirl sunk down nearly at her full length uponone of the stone stairs, and vented the anguishof her heart in bitter tears.

After a time she arose, and with feeble and tot-tering steps ascended the street. The astonishedlistener remained motionless on his post forsome minutes afterwards, and having ascer-tained, with many cautious glances round him,that he was again alone, crept slowly from hishiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in theshade of the wall, in the same manner as he haddescended.

Peeping out, more than once, when he reachedthe top, to make sure that he was unobserved,Noah Claypole darted away at his utmostspeed, and made for the Jew's house as fast ashis legs would carry him.

CHAPTER XLVII

FATAL CONSEQUENCES

It was nearly two hours before day-break; thattime which in the autumn of the year, may betruly called the dead of night; when the streetsare silent and deserted; when even sounds ap-pear to slumber, and profligacy and riot havestaggered home to dream; it was at this stilland silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in hisold lair, with face so distorted and pale, andeyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked lesslike a man, than like some hideous phantom,moist from the grave, and worried by an evilspirit.

He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrappedin an old torn coverlet, with his face turned

towards a wasting candle that stood upon atable by his side. His right hand was raised tohis lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit hislong black nails, he disclosed among his tooth-less gums a few such fangs as should have beena dog's or rat's.

Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, layNoah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him theold man sometimes directed his eyes for aninstant, and then brought them back again tothe candle; which with a long-burnt wickdrooping almost double, and hot grease fallingdown in clots upon the table, plainly showedthat his thoughts were busy elsewhere.

Indeed they were. Mortification at the over-throw of his notable scheme; hatred of the girlwho had dared to palter with strangers; andutter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal toyield him up; bitter disappointment at the lossof his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection,and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly

rage kindled by all; these were the passionateconsiderations which, following close uponeach other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shotthrough the brain of Fagin, as every evilthought and blackest purpose lay working athis heart.

He sat without changing his attitude in theleast, or appearing to take the smallest heed oftime, until his quick ear seemed to be attractedby a footstep in the street.

'At last,' he muttered, wiping his dry and fe-vered mouth. 'At last!'

The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept up-stairs to the door, and presently returned ac-companied by a man muffled to the chin, whocarried a bundle under one arm. Sitting downand throwing back his outer coat, the man dis-played the burly frame of Sikes.

'There!' he said, laying the bundle on the table.'Take care of that, and do the most you canwith it. It's been trouble enough to get; Ithought I should have been here, three hoursago.'

Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and lock-ing it in the cupboard, sat down again withoutspeaking. But he did not take his eyes off therobber, for an instant, during this action; andnow that they sat over against each other, faceto face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lipsquivering so violently, and his face so alteredby the emotions which had mastered him, thatthe housebreaker involuntarily drew back hischair, and surveyed him with a look of realaffright.

'Wot now?' cried Sikes. 'Wot do you look at aman so for?'

Fagin raised his right hand, and shook histrembling forefinger in the air; but his passion

was so great, that the power of speech was forthe moment gone.

'Damme!' said Sikes, feeling in his breast with alook of alarm. 'He's gone mad. I must look tomyself here.'

'No, no,' rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. 'It'snot—you're not the person, Bill. I've no—nofault to find with you.'

'Oh, you haven't, haven't you?' said Sikes, look-ing sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing apistol into a more convenient pocket. 'That'slucky—for one of us. Which one that is, don'tmatter.'

'I've got that to tell you, Bill,' said Fagin, draw-ing his chair nearer, 'will make you worse thanme.'

'Aye?' returned the robber with an incredulousair. 'Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will thinkI'm lost.'

'Lost!' cried Fagin. 'She has pretty well settledthat, in her own mind, already.'

Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexityinto the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactoryexplanation of the riddle there, clenched hiscoat collar in his huge hand and shook himsoundly.

'Speak, will you!' he said; 'or if you don't, itshall be for want of breath. Open your mouthand say wot you've got to say in plain words.Out with it, you thundering old cur, out withit!'

'Suppose that lad that's laying there—' Faginbegan.

Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleep-ing, as if he had not previously observed him.'Well!' he said, resuming his former position.

'Suppose that lad,' pursued Fagin, 'was topeach—to blow upon us all—first seeking outthe right folks for the purpose, and then havinga meeting with 'em in the street to paint ourlikenesses, describe every mark that they mightknow us by, and the crib where we might bemost easily taken. Suppose he was to do allthis, and besides to blow upon a plant we've allbeen in, more or less—of his own fancy; notgrabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the par-son and brought to it on bread and water,—butof his own fancy; to please his own taste; steal-ing out at nights to find those most interestedagainst us, and peaching to them. Do you hearme?' cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage.'Suppose he did all this, what then?'

'What then!' replied Sikes; with a tremendousoath. 'If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his

skull under the iron heel of my boot into asmany grains as there are hairs upon his head.'

'What if I did it!' cried Fagin almost in a yell. 'I,that knows so much, and could hang so manybesides myself!'

'I don't know,' replied Sikes, clenching his teethand turning white at the mere suggestion. 'I'ddo something in the jail that 'ud get me put inirons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fallupon you with them in the open court, and beatyour brains out afore the people. I should havesuch strength,' muttered the robber, poising hisbrawny arm, 'that I could smash your head as ifa loaded waggon had gone over it.'

'You would?'

'Would I!' said the housebreaker. 'Try me.'

'If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—'

'I don't care who,' replied Sikes impatiently.'Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same.'

Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motion-ing him to be silent, stooped over the bed uponthe floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him.Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking onwith his hands upon his knees, as if wonderingmuch what all this questioning and preparationwas to end in.

'Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!' said Fagin, looking upwith an expression of devilish anticipation, andspeaking slowly and with marked emphasis.'He's tired—tired with watching for her solong,—watching for her, Bill.'

'Wot d'ye mean?' asked Sikes, drawing back.

Fagin made no answer, but bending over thesleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture.When his assumed name had been repeated

several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giv-ing a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.

'Tell me that again—once again, just for him tohear,' said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as hespoke.

'Tell yer what?' asked the sleepy Noah, shakinghimself pettishly.

'That about— Nancy,' said Fagin, clutchingSikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leavingthe house before he had heard enough. 'Youfollowed her?'

'Yes.'

'To London Bridge?'

'Yes.'

'Where she met two people.'

'So she did.'

'A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to ofher own accord before, who asked her to giveup all her pals, and Monks first, which shedid—and to describe him, which she did—andto tell her what house it was that we meet at,and go to, which she did—and where it couldbe best watched from, which she did—andwhat time the people went there, which shedid. She did all this. She told it all every wordwithout a threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?' cried Fagin, half mad with fury.

'All right,' replied Noah, scratching his head.'That's just what it was!'

'What did they say, about last Sunday?'

'About last Sunday!' replied Noah, considering.'Why I told yer that before.'

'Again. Tell it again!' cried Fagin, tightening hisgrasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other handaloft, as the foam flew from his lips.

'They asked her,' said Noah, who, as he grewmore wakeful, seemed to have a dawning per-ception who Sikes was, 'they asked her why shedidn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. Shesaid she couldn't.'

'Why—why? Tell him that.'

'Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill,the man she had told them of before,' repliedNoah.

'What more of him?' cried Fagin. 'What more ofthe man she had told them of before? Tell himthat, tell him that.'

'Why, that she couldn't very easily get out ofdoors unless he knew where she was going to,'said Noah; 'and so the first time she went to seethe lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laughwhen she said it, that it did—she gave him adrink of laudanum.'

'Hell's fire!' cried Sikes, breaking fiercely fromthe Jew. 'Let me go!'

Flinging the old man from him, he rushed fromthe room, and darted, wildly and furiously, upthe stairs.

'Bill, Bill!' cried Fagin, following him hastily. 'Aword. Only a word.'

The word would not have been exchanged, butthat the housebreaker was unable to open thedoor: on which he was expending fruitlessoaths and violence, when the Jew came pantingup.

'Let me out,' said Sikes. 'Don't speak to me; it'snot safe. Let me out, I say!'

'Hear me speak a word,' rejoined Fagin, layinghis hand upon the lock. 'You won't be—'

'Well,' replied the other.

'You won't be—too—violent, Bill?'

The day was breaking, and there was lightenough for the men to see each other's faces.They exchanged one brief glance; there was afire in the eyes of both, which could not be mis-taken.

'I mean,' said Fagin, showing that he felt alldisguise was now useless, 'not too violent forsafety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.'

Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open thedoor, of which Fagin had turned the lock,dashed into the silent streets.

Without one pause, or moment's consideration;without once turning his head to the right orleft, or raising his eyes to the sky, or loweringthem to the ground, but looking straight beforehim with savage resolution: his teeth so tightlycompressed that the strained jaw seemed start-ing through his skin; the robber held on his

headlong course, nor muttered a word, norrelaxed a muscle, until he reached his owndoor. He opened it, softly, with a key; strodelightly up the stairs; and entering his ownroom, double-locked the door, and lifting aheavy table against it, drew back the curtain ofthe bed.

The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. Hehad roused her from her sleep, for she raisedherself with a hurried and startled look.

'Get up!' said the man.

'It is you, Bill!' said the girl, with an expressionof pleasure at his return.

'It is,' was the reply. 'Get up.'

There was a candle burning, but the man hast-ily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled itunder the grate. Seeing the faint light of early

day without, the girl rose to undraw the cur-tain.

'Let it be,' said Sikes, thrusting his hand beforeher. 'There's enough light for wot I've got todo.'

'Bill,' said the girl, in the low voice of alarm,'why do you look like that at me!'

The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds,with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; andthen, grasping her by the head and throat,dragged her into the middle of the room, andlooking once towards the door, placed hisheavy hand upon her mouth.

'Bill, Bill!' gasped the girl, wrestling with thestrength of mortal fear,—'I—I won't scream orcry—not once—hear me—speak to me—tell mewhat I have done!'

'You know, you she devil!' returned the robber,suppressing his breath. 'You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard.'

'Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as Ispared yours,' rejoined the girl, clinging to him.'Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to killme. Oh! think of all I have given up, only thisone night, for you. You shall have time to think,and save yourself this crime; I will not loose myhold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, fordear God's sake, for your own, for mine, stopbefore you spill my blood! I have been true toyou, upon my guilty soul I have!'

The man struggled violently, to release hisarms; but those of the girl were clasped roundhis, and tear her as he would, he could not tearthem away.

'Bill,' cried the girl, striving to lay her headupon his breast, 'the gentleman and that dearlady, told me to-night of a home in some for-

eign country where I could end my days insolitude and peace. Let me see them again, andbeg them, on my knees, to show the samemercy and goodness to you; and let us bothleave this dreadful place, and far apart leadbetter lives, and forget how we have lived, ex-cept in prayers, and never see each other more.It is never too late to repent. They told me so—Ifeel it now—but we must have time—a little,little time!'

The housebreaker freed one arm, and graspedhis pistol. The certainty of immediate detectionif he fired, flashed across his mind even in themidst of his fury; and he beat it twice with allthe force he could summon, upon the upturnedface that almost touched his own.

She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with theblood that rained down from a deep gash in herforehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, onher knees, drew from her bosom a white hand-kerchief—Rose Maylie's own—and holding it

up, in her folded hands, as high towardsHeaven as her feeble strength would allow,breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.

It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The mur-derer staggering backward to the wall, andshutting out the sight with his hand, seized aheavy club and struck her down.

CHAPTER XLVIII

THE FLIGHT OF SIKES

Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the dark-ness, had been committed within wide Lon-don's bounds since night hung over it, that wasthe worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an illscent upon the morning air, that was the foulestand most cruel.

The sun—the bright sun, that brings back, notlight alone, but new life, and hope, and fresh-ness to man—burst upon the crowded city inclear and radiant glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended window,through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, itshed its equal ray. It lighted up the room wherethe murdered woman lay. It did. He tried toshut it out, but it would stream in. If the sighthad been a ghastly one in the dull morning,what was it, now, in all that brilliant light!

He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir.There had been a moan and motion of thehand; and, with terror added to rage, he hadstruck and struck again. Once he threw a rugover it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes, andimagine them moving towards him, than to seethem glaring upward, as if watching the reflec-tion of the pool of gore that quivered anddanced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He hadplucked it off again. And there was the body—

mere flesh and blood, no more—but such flesh,and so much blood!

He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust theclub into it. There was hair upon the end,which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder,and, caught by the air, whirled up the chimney.Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was; buthe held the weapon till it broke, and then piledit on the coals to burn away, and smoulder intoashes. He washed himself, and rubbed hisclothes; there were spots that would not be re-moved, but he cut the pieces out, and burntthem. How those stains were dispersed aboutthe room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.

All this time he had, never once, turned hisback upon the corpse; no, not for a moment.Such preparations completed, he moved,backward, towards the door: dragging the dogwith him, lest he should soil his feet anew andcarry out new evidence of the crime into the

streets. He shut the door softly, locked it, tookthe key, and left the house.

He crossed over, and glanced up at the win-dow, to be sure that nothing was visible fromthe outside. There was the curtain still drawn,which she would have opened to admit thelight she never saw again. It lay nearly underthere. He knew that. God, how the sun poureddown upon the very spot!

The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief tohave got free of the room. He whistled on thedog, and walked rapidly away.

He went through Islington; strode up the hill atHighgate on which stands the stone in honourof Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill,unsteady of purpose, and uncertain where togo; struck off to the right again, almost as soonas he began to descend it; and taking the foot-path across the fields, skirted Caen Wood, andso came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the

hollow by the Vale of Heath, he mounted theopposite bank, and crossing the road whichjoins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate,made along the remaining portion of the heathto the fields at North End, in one of which helaid himself down under a hedge, and slept.

Soon he was up again, and away,—not far intothe country, but back towards London by thehigh-road—then back again—then over an-other part of the same ground as he alreadytraversed—then wandering up and down infields, and lying on ditches' brinks to rest, andstarting up to make for some other spot, and dothe same, and ramble on again.

Where could he go, that was near and not toopublic, to get some meat and drink? Hendon.That was a good place, not far off, and out ofmost people's way. Thither he directed hissteps,—running sometimes, and sometimes,with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail'space, or stopping altogether and idly breaking

the hedges with a stick. But when he got there,all the people he met—the very children at thedoors—seemed to view him with suspicion.Back he turned again, without the courage topurchase bit or drop, though he had tasted nofood for many hours; and once more he lin-gered on the Heath, uncertain where to go.

He wandered over miles and miles of ground,and still came back to the old place. Morningand noon had passed, and the day was on thewane, and still he rambled to and fro, and upand down, and round and round, and still lin-gered about the same spot. At last he got away,and shaped his course for Hatfield.

It was nine o'clock at night, when the man,quite tired out, and the dog, limping and lamefrom the unaccustomed exercise, turned downthe hill by the church of the quiet village, andplodding along the little street, crept into asmall public-house, whose scanty light hadguided them to the spot. There was a fire in the

tap-room, and some country-labourers weredrinking before it.

They made room for the stranger, but he satdown in the furthest corner, and ate and drankalone, or rather with his dog: to whom he cast amorsel of food from time to time.

The conversation of the men assembled here,turned upon the neighbouring land, and farm-ers; and when those topics were exhausted,upon the age of some old man who had beenburied on the previous Sunday; the young menpresent considering him very old, and the oldmen present declaring him to have been quiteyoung—not older, one white-haired grandfa-ther said, than he was—with ten or fifteen yearof life in him at least—if he had taken care; if hehad taken care.

There was nothing to attract attention, or excitealarm in this. The robber, after paying his reck-oning, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner,

and had almost dropped asleep, when he washalf wakened by the noisy entrance of a newcomer.

This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and halfmountebank, who travelled about the countryon foot to vend hones, strops, razors,washballs, harness-paste, medicine for dogsand horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, andsuch-like wares, which he carried in a caseslung to his back. His entrance was the signalfor various homely jokes with the countrymen,which slackened not until he had made hissupper, and opened his box of treasures, whenhe ingeniously contrived to unite business withamusement.

'And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?'asked a grinning countryman, pointing to somecomposition-cakes in one corner.

'This,' said the fellow, producing one, 'this isthe infallible and invaluable composition for

removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew,spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin,linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, me-rino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff.Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, allcome out at one rub with the infallible and in-valuable composition. If a lady stains her hon-our, she has only need to swallow one cake andshe's cured at once—for it's poison. If a gentle-man wants to prove this, he has only need tobolt one little square, and he has put it beyondquestion—for it's quite as satisfactory as a pis-tol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the fla-vour, consequently the more credit in taking it.One penny a square. With all these virtues, onepenny a square!'

There were two buyers directly, and more ofthe listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor ob-serving this, increased in loquacity.

'It's all bought up as fast as it can be made,' saidthe fellow. 'There are fourteen water-mills, sixsteam-engines, and a galvanic battery, alwaysa-working upon it, and they can't make it fastenough, though the men work so hard thatthey die off, and the widows is pensioned di-rectly, with twenty pound a-year for each of thechildren, and a premium of fifty for twins. Onepenny a square! Two half-pence is all the same,and four farthings is received with joy. Onepenny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains,mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain uponthe hat of a gentleman in company, that I'll takeclean out, before he can order me a pint of ale.'

'Hah!' cried Sikes starting up. 'Give that back.'

'I'll take it clean out, sir,' replied the man, wink-ing to the company, 'before you can comeacross the room to get it. Gentlemen all, ob-serve the dark stain upon this gentleman's hat,no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-

crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain,beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain,mud-stain, or blood-stain—'

The man got no further, for Sikes with a hide-ous imprecation overthrew the table, and tear-ing the hat from him, burst out of the house.

With the same perversity of feeling and irreso-lution that had fastened upon him, despitehimself, all day, the murderer, finding that hewas not followed, and that they most probablyconsidered him some drunken sullen fellow,turned back up the town, and getting out of theglare of the lamps of a stage-coach that wasstanding in the street, was walking past, whenhe recognised the mail from London, and sawthat it was standing at the little post-office. Healmost knew what was to come; but he crossedover, and listened.

The guard was standing at the door, waiting forthe letter-bag. A man, dressed like a game-

keeper, came up at the moment, and he handedhim a basket which lay ready on the pavement.

'That's for your people,' said the guard. 'Now,look alive in there, will you. Damn that 'erebag, it warn't ready night afore last; this won'tdo, you know!'

'Anything new up in town, Ben?' asked thegame-keeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.

'No, nothing that I knows on,' replied the man,pulling on his gloves. 'Corn's up a little. I heerdtalk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way,but I don't reckon much upon it.'

'Oh, that's quite true,' said a gentleman inside,who was looking out of the window. 'And adreadful murder it was.'

'Was it, sir?' rejoined the guard, touching hishat. 'Man or woman, pray, sir?'

'A woman,' replied the gentleman. 'It is sup-posed—'

'Now, Ben,' replied the coachman impatiently.

'Damn that 'ere bag,' said the guard; 'are yougone to sleep in there?'

'Coming!' cried the office keeper, running out.

'Coming,' growled the guard. 'Ah, and so's theyoung 'ooman of property that's going to take afancy to me, but I don't know when. Here, givehold. All ri—ight!'

The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and thecoach was gone.

Sikes remained standing in the street, appar-ently unmoved by what he had just heard, andagitated by no stronger feeling than a doubtwhere to go. At length he went back again, andtook the road which leads from Hatfield to St.Albans.

He went on doggedly; but as he left the townbehind him, and plunged into the solitude anddarkness of the road, he felt a dread and awecreeping upon him which shook him to thecore. Every object before him, substance orshadow, still or moving, took the semblance ofsome fearful thing; but these fears were nothingcompared to the sense that haunted him of thatmorning's ghastly figure following at his heels.He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supplythe smallest item of the outline, and note howstiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. Hecould hear its garments rustling in the leaves,and every breath of wind came laden with thatlast low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If heran, it followed—not running too: that wouldhave been a relief: but like a corpse endowedwith the mere machinery of life, and borne onone slow melancholy wind that never rose orfell.

At times, he turned, with desperate determina-tion, resolved to beat this phantom off, thoughit should look him dead; but the hair rose onhis head, and his blood stood still, for it hadturned with him and was behind him then. Hehad kept it before him that morning, but it wasbehind now—always. He leaned his backagainst a bank, and felt that it stood above him,visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threwhimself upon the road—on his back upon theroad. At his head it stood, silent, erect, andstill—a living grave-stone, with its epitaph inblood.

Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice,and hint that Providence must sleep. Therewere twenty score of violent deaths in one longminute of that agony of fear.

There was a shed in a field he passed, that of-fered shelter for the night. Before the door,were three tall poplar trees, which made it verydark within; and the wind moaned through

them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on,till daylight came again; and here he stretchedhimself close to the wall—to undergo new tor-ture.

For now, a vision came before him, as constantand more terrible than that from which he hadescaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustre-less and so glassy, that he had better borne tosee them than think upon them, appeared inthe midst of the darkness: light in themselves,but giving light to nothing. There were but two,but they were everywhere. If he shut out thesight, there came the room with every well-known object—some, indeed, that he wouldhave forgotten, if he had gone over its contentsfrom memory—each in its accustomed place.The body was in its place, and its eyes were ashe saw them when he stole away. He got up,and rushed into the field without. The figurewas behind him. He re-entered the shed, and

shrunk down once more. The eyes were there,before he had laid himself along.

And here he remained in such terror as nonebut he can know, trembling in every limb, andthe cold sweat starting from every pore, whensuddenly there arose upon the night-wind thenoise of distant shouting, and the roar of voicesmingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound ofmen in that lonely place, even though it con-veyed a real cause of alarm, was something tohim. He regained his strength and energy at theprospect of personal danger; and springing tohis feet, rushed into the open air.

The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into theair with showers of sparks, and rolling oneabove the other, were sheets of flame, lightingthe atmosphere for miles round, and drivingclouds of smoke in the direction where hestood. The shouts grew louder as new voicesswelled the roar, and he could hear the cry ofFire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell,

the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling offlames as they twined round some new obsta-cle, and shot aloft as though refreshed by food.The noise increased as he looked. There werepeople there—men and women—light, bustle.It was like new life to him. He darted onward—straight, headlong—dashing through brier andbrake, and leaping gate and fence as madly ashis dog, who careered with loud and soundingbark before him.

He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, some en-deavouring to drag the frightened horses fromthe stables, others driving the cattle from theyard and out-houses, and others coming ladenfrom the burning pile, amidst a shower of fal-ling sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hotbeams. The apertures, where doors and win-dows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass ofraging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into theburning well; the molten lead and iron poured

down, white hot, upon the ground. Womenand children shrieked, and men encouragedeach other with noisy shouts and cheers. Theclanking of the engine-pumps, and the spirtingand hissing of the water as it fell upon the blaz-ing wood, added to the tremendous roar. Heshouted, too, till he was hoarse; and flying frommemory and himself, plunged into the thickestof the throng. Hither and thither he dived thatnight: now working at the pumps, and nowhurrying through the smoke and flame, butnever ceasing to engage himself wherever noiseand men were thickest. Up and down the lad-ders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floorsthat quaked and trembled with his weight, un-der the lee of falling bricks and stones, in everypart of that great fire was he; but he bore acharmed life, and had neither scratch norbruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morningdawned again, and only smoke and blackenedruins remained.

This mad excitement over, there returned, withten-fold force, the dreadful consciousness of hiscrime. He looked suspiciously about him, forthe men were conversing in groups, and hefeared to be the subject of their talk. The dogobeyed the significant beck of his finger, andthey drew off, stealthily, together. He passednear an engine where some men were seated,and they called to him to share in their re-freshment. He took some bread and meat; andas he drank a draught of beer, heard the fire-men, who were from London, talking about themurder. 'He has gone to Birmingham, they say,'said one: 'but they'll have him yet, for thescouts are out, and by to-morrow night there'llbe a cry all through the country.'

He hurried off, and walked till he almostdropped upon the ground; then lay down in alane, and had a long, but broken and uneasysleep. He wandered on again, irresolute and

undecided, and oppressed with the fear of an-other solitary night.

Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution togoing back to London.

'There's somebody to speak to there, at allevent,' he thought. 'A good hiding-place, too.They'll never expect to nab me there, after thiscountry scent. Why can't I lie by for a week orso, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad toFrance? Damme, I'll risk it.'

He acted upon this impulse without delay, andchoosing the least frequented roads began hisjourney back, resolved to lie concealed within ashort distance of the metropolis, and, enteringit at dusk by a circuitous route, to proceedstraight to that part of it which he had fixed onfor his destination.

The dog, though. If any description of himwere out, it would not be forgotten that the dog

was missing, and had probably gone with him.This might lead to his apprehension as hepassed along the streets. He resolved to drownhim, and walked on, looking about for a pond:picking up a heavy stone and tying it to hishandkerchief as he went.

The animal looked up into his master's facewhile these preparations were making; whetherhis instinct apprehended something of theirpurpose, or the robber's sidelong look at himwas sterner than ordinary, he skulked a littlefarther in the rear than usual, and cowered ashe came more slowly along. When his masterhalted at the brink of a pool, and looked roundto call him, he stopped outright.

'Do you hear me call? Come here!' cried Sikes.

The animal came up from the very force ofhabit; but as Sikes stooped to attach the hand-kerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growland started back.

'Come back!' said the robber.

The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikesmade a running noose and called him again.

The dog advanced, retreated, paused an in-stant, and scoured away at his hardest speed.

The man whistled again and again, and satdown and waited in the expectation that hewould return. But no dog appeared, and atlength he resumed his journey.

CHAPTER XLIX

MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW ATLENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION,AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTER-RUPTS IT

The twilight was beginning to close in, whenMr. Brownlowalighted from a hackney-coach at his own door,and knocked softly. The door being opened, asturdy man got out of the coach and stationedhimself on one side of the steps, while anotherman, who had been seated on the box, dis-mounted too, and stood upon the other side. Ata sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out athird man, and taking him between them, hur-ried him into the house. This man was Monks.

They walked in the same manner up the stairswithout speaking, and Mr. Brownlow, preced-ing them, led the way into a back-room. At the

door of this apartment, Monks, who had as-cended with evident reluctance, stopped. Thetwo men looked at the old gentleman as if forinstructions.

'He knows the alternative,' said Mr. Browlow.'If he hesitates or moves a finger but as you bidhim, drag him into the street, call for the aid ofthe police, and impeach him as a felon in myname.'

'How dare you say this of me?' asked Monks.

'How dare you urge me to it, young man?' re-plied Mr. Brownlow, confronting him with asteady look. 'Are you mad enough to leave thishouse? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free togo, and we to follow. But I warn you, by all Ihold most solemn and most sacred, that instantwill have you apprehended on a charge offraud and robbery. I am resolute and immove-able. If you are determined to be the same, yourblood be upon your own head!'

'By what authority am I kidnapped in thestreet, and brought here by these dogs?' askedMonks, looking from one to the other of themen who stood beside him.

'By mine,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'Those per-sons are indemnified by me. If you complain ofbeing deprived of your liberty—you had powerand opportunity to retrieve it as you camealong, but you deemed it advisable to remainquiet—I say again, throw yourself for protec-tion on the law. I will appeal to the law too; butwhen you have gone too far to recede, do notsue to me for leniency, when the power willhave passed into other hands; and do not say Iplunged you down the gulf into which yourushed, yourself.'

Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmedbesides. He hesitated.

'You will decide quickly,' said Mr. Brownlow,with perfect firmness and composure. 'If you

wish me to prefer my charges publicly, andconsign you to a punishment the extent ofwhich, although I can, with a shudder, foresee,I cannot control, once more, I say, for you knowthe way. If not, and you appeal to my forbear-ance, and the mercy of those you have deeplyinjured, seat yourself, without a word, in thatchair. It has waited for you two whole days.'

Monks muttered some unintelligible words, butwavered still.

'You will be prompt,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'Aword from me, and the alternative has gone forever.'

Still the man hesitated.

'I have not the inclination to parley,' said Mr.Brownlow, 'and, as I advocate the dearest inter-ests of others, I have not the right.'

'Is there—' demanded Monks with a falteringtongue,—'is there—no middle course?'

'None.'

Monks looked at the old gentleman, with ananxious eye; but, reading in his countenancenothing but severity and determination,walked into the room, and, shrugging hisshoulders, sat down.

'Lock the door on the outside,' said Mr.Brownlow to the attendants, 'and come when Iring.'

The men obeyed, and the two were left alonetogether.

'This is pretty treatment, sir,' said Monks,throwing down his hat and cloak, 'from myfather's oldest friend.'

'It is because I was your father's oldest friend,young man,' returned Mr. Brownlow; 'it is be-

cause the hopes and wishes of young andhappy years were bound up with him, and thatfair creature of his blood and kindred who re-joined her God in youth, and left me here asolitary, lonely man: it is because he knelt withme beside his only sisters' death-bed when hewas yet a boy, on the morning that would—butHeaven willed otherwise—have made her myyoung wife; it is because my seared heart clungto him, from that time forth, through all histrials and errors, till he died; it is because oldrecollections and associations filled my heart,and even the sight of you brings with it oldthoughts of him; it is because of all these thingsthat I am moved to treat you gently now—yes,Edward Leeford, even now—and blush foryour unworthiness who bear the name.'

'What has the name to do with it?' asked theother, after contemplating, half in silence, andhalf in dogged wonder, the agitation of hiscompanion. 'What is the name to me?'

'Nothing,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'nothing toyou. But it was hers, and even at this distance oftime brings back to me, an old man, the glowand thrill which I once felt, only to hear it re-peated by a stranger. I am very glad you havechanged it—very—very.'

'This is all mighty fine,' said Monks (to retainhis assumed designation) after a long silence,during which he had jerked himself in sullendefiance to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat,shading his face with his hand. 'But what doyou want with me?'

'You have a brother,' said Mr. Brownlow, rous-ing himself: 'a brother, the whisper of whosename in your ear when I came behind you inthe street, was, in itself, almost enough to makeyou accompany me hither, in wonder andalarm.'

'I have no brother,' replied Monks. 'You know Iwas an only child. Why do you talk to me ofbrothers? You know that, as well as I.'

'Attend to what I do know, and you may not,'said Mr. Brownlow. 'I shall interest you by andby. I know that of the wretched marriage, intowhich family pride, and the most sordid andnarrowest of all ambition, forced your unhappyfather when a mere boy, you were the sole andmost unnatural issue.'

'I don't care for hard names,' interruptedMonks with a jeering laugh. 'You know the fact,and that's enough for me.'

'But I also know,' pursued the old gentleman,'the misery, the slow torture, the protractedanguish of that ill-assorted union. I know howlistlessly and wearily each of that wretched pairdragged on their heavy chain through a worldthat was poisoned to them both. I know howcold formalities were succeeded by open

taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike,dislike to hate, and hate to loathing, until at lastthey wrenched the clanking bond asunder, andretiring a wide space apart, carried each a gall-ing fragment, of which nothing but death couldbreak the rivets, to hide it in new society be-neath the gayest looks they could assume. Yourmother succeeded; she forgot it soon. But itrusted and cankered at your father's heart foryears.'

'Well, they were separated,' said Monks, 'andwhat of that?'

'When they had been separated for some time,'returned Mr. Brownlow, 'and your mother,wholly given up to continental frivolities, hadutterly forgotten the young husband ten goodyears her junior, who, with prospects blighted,lingered on at home, he fell among new friends.This circumstance, at least, you know already.'

'Not I,' said Monks, turning away his eyes andbeating his foot upon the ground, as a manwho is determined to deny everything. 'Not I.'

'Your manner, no less than your actions, as-sures me that you have never forgotten it, orceased to think of it with bitterness,' returnedMr. Brownlow. 'I speak of fifteen years ago,when you were not more than eleven years old,and your father but one-and-thirty—for he was,I repeat, a boy, when his father ordered him tomarry. Must I go back to events which cast ashade upon the memory of your parent, or willyou spare it, and disclose to me the truth?'

'I have nothing to disclose,' rejoined Monks.'You must talk on if you will.'

'These new friends, then,' said Mr. Brownlow,'were a naval officer retired from active service,whose wife had died some half-a-year before,and left him with two children—there had beenmore, but, of all their family, happily but two

survived. They were both daughters; one abeautiful creature of nineteen, and the other amere child of two or three years old.'

'What's this to me?' asked Monks.

'They resided,' said Mr. Brownlow, withoutseeming to hear the interruption, 'in a part ofthe country to which your father in his wander-ing had repaired, and where he had taken uphis abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship,fast followed on each other. Your father wasgifted as few men are. He had his sister's souland person. As the old officer knew him moreand more, he grew to love him. I would that ithad ended there. His daughter did the same.'

The old gentleman paused; Monks was bitinghis lips, with his eyes fixed upon the floor; see-ing this, he immediately resumed:

'The end of a year found him contracted, sol-emnly contracted, to that daughter; the object

of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a guile-less girl.'

'Your tale is of the longest,' observed Monks,moving restlessly in his chair.

'It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow,young man,' returned Mr. Brownlow, 'and suchtales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joyand happiness, it would be very brief. At lengthone of those rich relations to strengthen whoseinterest and importance your father had beensacrificed, as others are often—it is no uncom-mon case—died, and to repair the misery hehad been instrumental in occasioning, left himhis panacea for all griefs—Money. It was neces-sary that he should immediately repair toRome, whither this man had sped for health,and where he had died, leaving his affairs ingreat confusion. He went; was seized with mor-tal illness there; was followed, the moment theintelligence reached Paris, by your mother whocarried you with her; he died the day after her

arrival, leaving no will—no will—so that thewhole property fell to her and you.'

At this part of the recital Monks held hisbreath, and listened with a face of intense ea-gerness, though his eyes were not directed to-wards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused,he changed his position with the air of one whohas experienced a sudden relief, and wiped hishot face and hands.

'Before he went abroad, and as he passedthrough London on his way,' said Mr.Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon theother's face, 'he came to me.'

'I never heard of that,' interrupted Monks in atone intended to appear incredulous, but sa-vouring more of disagreeable surprise.

'He came to me, and left with me, among someother things, a picture—a portrait painted byhimself—a likeness of this poor girl—which he

did not wish to leave behind, and could notcarry forward on his hasty journey. He wasworn by anxiety and remorse almost to ashadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, ofruin and dishonour worked by himself; con-fided to me his intention to convert his wholeproperty, at any loss, into money, and, havingsettled on his wife and you a portion of his re-cent acquisition, to fly the country—I guessedtoo well he would not fly alone—and never seeit more. Even from me, his old and early friend,whose strong attachment had taken root in theearth that covered one most dear to both—evenfrom me he withheld any more particular con-fession, promising to write and tell me all, andafter that to see me once again, for the last timeon earth. Alas! That was the last time. I had noletter, and I never saw him more.'

'I went,' said Mr. Brownlow, after a shortpause, 'I went, when all was over, to the sceneof his—I will use the term the world would

freely use, for worldly harshness or favour arenow alike to him—of his guilty love, resolvedthat if my fears were realised that erring childshould find one heart and home to shelter andcompassionate her. The family had left thatpart a week before; they had called in such tri-fling debts as were outstanding, dischargedthem, and left the place by night. Why, orwhither, none can tell.'

Monks drew his breath yet more freely, andlooked round with a smile of triumph.

'When your brother,' said Mr. Brownlow, draw-ing nearer to the other's chair, 'When yourbrother: a feeble, ragged, neglected child: wascast in my way by a stronger hand than chance,and rescued by me from a life of vice and in-famy—'

'What?' cried Monks.

'By me,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'I told you I shouldinterest you before long. I say by me—I see thatyour cunning associate suppressed my name,although for ought he knew, it would be quitestrange to your ears. When he was rescued byme, then, and lay recovering from sickness inmy house, his strong resemblance to this pic-ture I have spoken of, struck me with aston-ishment. Even when I first saw him in all hisdirt and misery, there was a lingering expres-sion in his face that came upon me like aglimpse of some old friend flashing on one in avivid dream. I need not tell you he was snaredaway before I knew his history—'

'Why not?' asked Monks hastily.

'Because you know it well.'

'I!'

'Denial to me is vain,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'Ishall show you that I know more than that.'

'You—you—can't prove anything against me,'stammered Monks. 'I defy you to do it!'

'We shall see,' returned the old gentleman witha searching glance. 'I lost the boy, and no effortsof mine could recover him. Your mother beingdead, I knew that you alone could solve themystery if anybody could, and as when I hadlast heard of you you were on your own estatein the West Indies—whither, as you well know,you retired upon your mother's death to escapethe consequences of vicious courses here—Imade the voyage. You had left it, months be-fore, and were supposed to be in London, butno one could tell where. I returned. Your agentshad no clue to your residence. You came andwent, they said, as strangely as you had everdone: sometimes for days together and some-times not for months: keeping to all appearancethe same low haunts and mingling with thesame infamous herd who had been your asso-ciates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wea-

ried them with new applications. I paced thestreets by night and day, but until two hoursago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I neversaw you for an instant.'

'And now you do see me,' said Monks, risingboldly, 'what then? Fraud and robbery arehigh-sounding words—justified, you think, bya fancied resemblance in some young imp to anidle daub of a dead man's Brother! You don'teven know that a child was born of this maud-lin pair; you don't even know that.'

'I did not,' replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; 'butwithin the last fortnight I have learnt it all. Youhave a brother; you know it, and him. Therewas a will, which your mother destroyed, leav-ing the secret and the gain to you at her owndeath. It contained a reference to some childlikely to be the result of this sad connection,which child was born, and accidentally encoun-tered by you, when your suspicions were firstawakened by his resemblance to your father.

You repaired to the place of his birth. Thereexisted proofs—proofs long suppressed—of hisbirth and parentage. Those proofs were de-stroyed by you, and now, in your own words toyour accomplice the Jew, "the only proofs of theboy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and theold hag that received them from the mother is rot-ting in her coffin." Unworthy son, coward, liar,—you, who hold your councils with thieves andmurderers in dark rooms at night,—you, whoseplots and wiles have brought a violent deathupon the head of one worth millions such asyou,—you, who from your cradle were gall andbitterness to your own father's heart, and inwhom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy,festered, till they found a vent in a hideous dis-ease which had made your face an index evento your mind—you, Edward Leeford, do youstill brave me!'

'No, no, no!' returned the coward, over-whelmed by these accumulated charges.

'Every word!' cried the gentleman, 'every wordthat has passed between you and this detestedvillain, is known to me. Shadows on the wallhave caught your whispers, and brought themto my ear; the sight of the persecuted child hasturned vice itself, and given it the courage andalmost the attributes of virtue. Murder has beendone, to which you were morally if not really aparty.'

'No, no,' interposed Monks. 'I—I knew nothingof that; I was going to inquire the truth of thestory when you overtook me. I didn't know thecause. I thought it was a common quarrel.'

'It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,'replied Mr. Brownlow. 'Will you disclose thewhole?'

'Yes, I will.'

'Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts,and repeat it before witnesses?'

'That I promise too.'

'Remain quietly here, until such a document isdrawn up, and proceed with me to such a placeas I may deem most advisable, for the purposeof attesting it?'

'If you insist upon that, I'll do that also,' repliedMonks.

'You must do more than that,' said Mr.Brownlow. 'Make restitution to an innocent andunoffending child, for such he is, although theoffspring of a guilty and most miserable love.You have not forgotten the provisions of thewill. Carry them into execution so far as yourbrother is concerned, and then go where youplease. In this world you need meet no more.'

While Monks was pacing up and down, medi-tating with dark and evil looks on this proposaland the possibilities of evading it: torn by hisfears on the one hand and his hatred on the

other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and agentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room inviolent agitation.

'The man will be taken,' he cried. 'He will betaken to-night!'

'The murderer?' asked Mr. Brownlow.

'Yes, yes,' replied the other. 'His dog has beenseen lurking about some old haunt, and thereseems little doubt that his master either is, orwill be, there, under cover of the darkness.Spies are hovering about in every direction. Ihave spoken to the men who are charged withhis capture, and they tell me he cannot escape.A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimedby Government to-night.'

'I will give fifty more,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'andproclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if Ican reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?'

'Harry? As soon as he had seen your friendhere, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off towhere he heard this,' replied the doctor, 'andmounting his horse sallied forth to join the firstparty at some place in the outskirts agreedupon between them.'

'Fagin,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'what of him?'

'When I last heard, he had not been taken, buthe will be, or is, by this time. They're sure ofhim.'

'Have you made up your mind?' asked Mr.Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.

'Yes,' he replied. 'You—you—will be secretwith me?'

'I will. Remain here till I return. It is your onlyhope of safety.'

They left the room, and the door was againlocked.

'What have you done?' asked the doctor in awhisper.

'All that I could hope to do, and even more.Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with myprevious knowledge, and the result of our goodfriend's inquiries on the spot, I left him noloophole of escape, and laid bare the wholevillainy which by these lights became plain asday. Write and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall bedown there, a few hours before, but shall re-quire rest: especially the young lady, who mayhave greater need of firmness than either youor I can quite foresee just now. But my bloodboils to avenge this poor murdered creature.Which way have they taken?'

'Drive straight to the office and you will be intime,' replied Mr. Losberne. 'I will remain here.'

The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in afever of excitement wholly uncontrollable.

CHAPTER L

THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE

Near to that part of the Thames on which thechurch at Rotherhithe abuts, where the build-ings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels onthe river blackest with the dust of colliers andthe smoke of close-built low-roofed houses,there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the mostextraordinary of the many localities that arehidden in London, wholly unknown, even byname, to the great mass of its inhabitants.

To reach this place, the visitor has to penetratethrough a maze of close, narrow, and muddystreets, thronged by the roughest and poorestof waterside people, and devoted to the trafficthey may be supposed to occasion. The cheap-

est and least delicate provisions are heaped inthe shops; the coarsest and commonest articlesof wearing apparel dangle at the salesman'sdoor, and stream from the house-parapet andwindows. Jostling with unemployed labourersof the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, andthe raff and refuse of the river, he makes hisway with difficulty along, assailed by offensivesights and smells from the narrow alleys whichbranch off on the right and left, and deafenedby the clash of ponderous waggons that beargreat piles of merchandise from the stacks ofwarehouses that rise from every corner. Arriv-ing, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he haspassed, he walks beneath tottering house-frontsprojecting over the pavement, dismantled wallsthat seem to totter as he passes, chimneys halfcrushed half hesitating to fall, windowsguarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt

have almost eaten away, every imaginable signof desolation and neglect.

In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead inthe Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Is-land, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six oreight feet deep and fifteen or twenty widewhen the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, butknown in the days of this story as Folly Ditch.It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, and canalways be filled at high water by opening thesluices at the Lead Mills from which it took itsold name. At such times, a stranger, lookingfrom one of the wooden bridges thrown acrossit at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of thehouses on either side lowering from their backdoors and windows, buckets, pails, domesticutensils of all kinds, in which to haul the waterup; and when his eye is turned from these op-erations to the houses themselves, his utmostastonishment will be excited by the scene be-fore him. Crazy wooden galleries common to

the backs of half a dozen houses, with holesfrom which to look upon the slime beneath;windows, broken and patched, with polesthrust out, on which to dry the linen that isnever there; rooms so small, so filthy, so con-fined, that the air would seem too tainted evenfor the dirt and squalor which they shelter;wooden chambers thrusting themselves outabove the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls anddecaying foundations; every repulsive linea-ment of poverty, every loathsome indication offilth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament thebanks of Folly Ditch.

In Jacob's Island, the warehouses are rooflessand empty; the walls are crumbling down; thewindows are windows no more; the doors arefalling into the streets; the chimneys are black-ened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or fortyyears ago, before losses and chancery suitscame upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it

is a desolate island indeed. The houses have noowners; they are broken open, and enteredupon by those who have the courage; and therethey live, and there they die. They must havepowerful motives for a secret residence, or bereduced to a destitute condition indeed, whoseek a refuge in Jacob's Island.

In an upper room of one of these houses—adetached house of fair size, ruinous in otherrespects, but strongly defended at door andwindow: of which house the back commandedthe ditch in manner already described—therewere assembled three men, who, regardingeach other every now and then with looks ex-pressive of perplexity and expectation, sat forsome time in profound and gloomy silence.One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr.Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years,whose nose had been almost beaten in, in someold scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scarwhich might probably be traced to the same

occasion. This man was a returned transport,and his name was Kags.

'I wish,' said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, 'thatyou had picked out some other crib when thetwo old ones got too warm, and had not comehere, my fine feller.'

'Why didn't you, blunder-head!' said Kags.

'Well, I thought you'd have been a little moreglad to see me than this,' replied Mr. Chitling,with a melancholy air.

'Why, look'e, young gentleman,' said Toby,'when a man keeps himself so very ex-clusiveas I have done, and by that means has a snughouse over his head with nobody a prying andsmelling about it, it's rather a startling thing tohave the honour of a wisit from a young gen-tleman (however respectable and pleasant aperson he may be to play cards with at con-weniency) circumstanced as you are.'

'Especially, when the exclusive young man hasgot a friend stopping with him, that's arrivedsooner than was expected from foreign parts,and is too modest to want to be presented tothe Judges on his return,' added Mr. Kags.

There was a short silence, after which TobyCrackit, seeming to abandon as hopeless anyfurther effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, turned to Chitling and said,

'When was Fagin took then?'

'Just at dinner-time—two o'clock this afternoon.Charley and I made our lucky up the wash-uschimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwards; but his legs were soprecious long that they stuck out at the top, andso they took him too.'

'And Bet?'

'Poor Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak towho it was,' replied Chitling, his countenancefalling more and more, 'and went off mad,screaming and raving, and beating her headagainst the boards; so they put a strait-weskuton her and took her to the hospital—and thereshe is.'

'Wot's come of young Bates?' demanded Kags.

'He hung about, not to come over here aforedark, but he'll be here soon,' replied Chitling.'There's nowhere else to go to now, for the peo-ple at the Cripples are all in custody, and thebar of the ken—I went up there and see it withmy own eyes—is filled with traps.'

'This is a smash,' observed Toby, biting his lips.'There's more than one will go with this.'

'The sessions are on,' said Kags: 'if they get theinquest over, and Bolter turns King's evidence:as of course he will, from what he's said al-

ready: they can prove Fagin an accessory beforethe fact, and get the trial on on Friday, and he'llswing in six days from this, by G—!'

'You should have heard the people groan,' saidChitling; 'the officers fought like devils, orthey'd have torn him away. He was down once,but they made a ring round him, and foughttheir way along. You should have seen how helooked about him, all muddy and bleeding, andclung to them as if they were his dearestfriends. I can see 'em now, not able to standupright with the pressing of the mob, anddraggin him along amongst 'em; I can see thepeople jumping up, one behind another, andsnarling with their teeth and making at him; Ican see the blood upon his hair and beard, andhear the cries with which the women workedthemselves into the centre of the crowd at thestreet corner, and swore they'd tear his heartout!'

The horror-stricken witness of this scenepressed his hands upon his ears, and with hiseyes closed got up and paced violently to andfro, like one distracted.

While he was thus engaged, and the two mensat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon thefloor, a pattering noise was heard upon thestairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room.They ran to the window, downstairs, and intothe street. The dog had jumped in at an openwindow; he made no attempt to follow them,nor was his master to be seen.

'What's the meaning of this?' said Toby whenthey had returned. 'He can't be coming here.I—I—hope not.'

'If he was coming here, he'd have come withthe dog,' said Kags, stooping down to examinethe animal, who lay panting on the floor. 'Here!Give us some water for him; he has run himselffaint.'

'He's drunk it all up, every drop,' said Chitlingafter watching the dog some time in silence.'Covered with mud—lame—half blind—hemust have come a long way.'

'Where can he have come from!' exclaimedToby. 'He's been to the other kens of course,and finding them filled with strangers come onhere, where he's been many a time and often.But where can he have come from first, andhow comes he here alone without the other!'

'He'—(none of them called the murderer by hisold name)—'He can't have made away withhimself. What do you think?' said Chitling.

Toby shook his head.

'If he had,' said Kags, 'the dog 'ud want to leadus away to where he did it. No. I think he's gotout of the country, and left the dog behind. Hemust have given him the slip somehow, or hewouldn't be so easy.'

This solution, appearing the most probable one,was adopted as the right; the dog, creepingunder a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, with-out more notice from anybody.

It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and acandle lighted and placed upon the table. Theterrible events of the last two days had made adeep impression on all three, increased by thedanger and uncertainty of their own position.They drew their chairs closer together, startingat every sound. They spoke little, and that inwhispers, and were as silent and awe-strickenas if the remains of the murdered woman lay inthe next room.

They had sat thus, some time, when suddenlywas heard a hurried knocking at the door be-low.

'Young Bates,' said Kags, looking angrilyround, to check the fear he felt himself.

The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. Henever knocked like that.

Crackit went to the window, and shaking allover, drew in his head. There was no need totell them who it was; his pale face was enough.The dog too was on the alert in an instant, andran whining to the door.

'We must let him in,' he said, taking up thecandle.

'Isn't there any help for it?' asked the other manin a hoarse voice.

'None. He must come in.'

'Don't leave us in the dark,' said Kags, takingdown a candle from the chimney-piece, andlighting it, with such a trembling hand that theknocking was twice repeated before he hadfinished.

Crackit went down to the door, and returnedfollowed by a man with the lower part of hisface buried in a handkerchief, and another tiedover his head under his hat. He drew themslowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollowcheeks, beard of three days' growth, wastedflesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghostof Sikes.

He laid his hand upon a chair which stood inthe middle of the room, but shuddering as hewas about to drop into it, and seeming toglance over his shoulder, dragged it back closeto the wall—as close as it would go—andground it against it—and sat down.

Not a word had been exchanged. He lookedfrom one to another in silence. If an eye werefurtively raised and met his, it was instantlyaverted. When his hollow voice broke silence,they all three started. They seemed never tohave heard its tones before.

'How came that dog here?' he asked.

'Alone. Three hours ago.'

'To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is ittrue, or a lie?'

'True.'

They were silent again.

'Damn you all!' said Sikes, passing his handacross his forehead.

'Have you nothing to say to me?'

There was an uneasy movement among them,but nobody spoke.

'You that keep this house,' said Sikes, turninghis face to Crackit, 'do you mean to sell me, orto let me lie here till this hunt is over?'

'You may stop here, if you think it safe,' re-turned the person addressed, after some hesita-tion.

Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behindhim: rather trying to turn his head than actuallydoing it: and said, 'Is—it—the body—is it bur-ied?'

They shook their heads.

'Why isn't it!' he retorted with the same glancebehind him. 'Wot do they keep such uglythings above the ground for?—Who's thatknocking?'

Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand ashe left the room, that there was nothing to fear;and directly came back with Charley Bates be-hind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so thatthe moment the boy entered the room he en-countered his figure.

'Toby,' said the boy falling back, as Sikes turnedhis eyes towards him, 'why didn't you tell methis, downstairs?'

There had been something so tremendous inthe shrinking off of the three, that the wretchedman was willing to propitiate even this lad.Accordingly he nodded, and made as thoughhe would shake hands with him.

'Let me go into some other room,' said the boy,retreating still farther.

'Charley!' said Sikes, stepping forward. 'Don'tyou—don't you know me?'

'Don't come nearer me,' answered the boy, stillretreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes,upon the murderer's face. 'You monster!'

The man stopped half-way, and they looked ateach other; but Sikes's eyes sunk gradually tothe ground.

'Witness you three,' cried the boy shaking hisclenched fist, and becoming more and moreexcited as he spoke. 'Witness you three—I'mnot afraid of him—if they come here after him,I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. Hemay kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, butif I am here I'll give him up. I'd give him up ifhe was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! Ifthere's the pluck of a man among you three,you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!'

Pouring out these cries, and accompanyingthem with violent gesticulation, the boy actu-ally threw himself, single-handed, upon thestrong man, and in the intensity of his energyand the suddenness of his surprise, broughthim heavily to the ground.

The three spectators seemed quite stupefied.They offered no interference, and the boy andman rolled on the ground together; the former,heedless of the blows that showered upon him,wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the

garments about the murderer's breast, andnever ceasing to call for help with all his might.

The contest, however, was too unequal to lastlong. Sikes had him down, and his knee was onhis throat, when Crackit pulled him back with alook of alarm, and pointed to the window.There were lights gleaming below, voices inloud and earnest conversation, the tramp ofhurried footsteps—endless they seemed innumber—crossing the nearest wooden bridge.One man on horseback seemed to be among thecrowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattlingon the uneven pavement. The gleam of lightsincreased; the footsteps came more thickly andnoisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at thedoor, and then a hoarse murmur from such amultitude of angry voices as would have madethe boldest quail.

'Help!' shrieked the boy in a voice that rent theair.

'He's here! Break down the door!'

'In the King's name,' cried the voices without;and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder.

'Break down the door!' screamed the boy. 'I tellyou they'll never open it. Run straight to theroom where the light is. Break down the door!'

Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the doorand lower window-shutters as he ceased tospeak, and a loud huzzah burst from thecrowd; giving the listener, for the first time,some adequate idea of its immense extent.

'Open the door of some place where I can lockthis screeching Hell-babe,' cried Sikes fiercely;running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now,as easily as if he were an empty sack. 'Thatdoor. Quick!' He flung him in, bolted it, andturned the key. 'Is the downstairs door fast?'

'Double-locked and chained,' replied Crackit,who, with the other two men, still remainedquite helpless and bewildered.

'The panels—are they strong?'

'Lined with sheet-iron.'

'And the windows too?'

'Yes, and the windows.'

'Damn you!' cried the desperate ruffian, throw-ing up the sash and menacing the crowd. 'Doyour worst! I'll cheat you yet!'

Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortalears, none could exceed the cry of the infuri-ated throng. Some shouted to those who werenearest to set the house on fire; others roared tothe officers to shoot him dead. Among them all,none showed such fury as the man on horse-back, who, throwing himself out of the saddle,and bursting through the crowd as if he were

parting water, cried, beneath the window, in avoice that rose above all others, 'Twenty guin-eas to the man who brings a ladder!'

The nearest voices took up the cry, and hun-dreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, somefor sledge-hammers; some ran with torches toand fro as if to seek them, and still came backand roared again; some spent their breath inimpotent curses and execrations; some pressedforward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thusimpeded the progress of those below; someamong the boldest attempted to climb up bythe water-spout and crevices in the wall; and allwaved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, likea field of corn moved by an angry wind: andjoined from time to time in one loud furiousroar.

'The tide,' cried the murderer, as he staggeredback into the room, and shut the faces out, 'thetide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a longrope. They're all in front. I may drop into the

Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me arope, or I shall do three more murders and killmyself.'

The panic-stricken men pointed to where sucharticles were kept; the murderer, hastily select-ing the longest and strongest cord, hurried upto the house-top.

All the window in the rear of the house hadbeen long ago bricked up, except one small trapin the room where the boy was locked, and thatwas too small even for the passage of his body.But, from this aperture, he had never ceased tocall on those without, to guard the back; andthus, when the murderer emerged at last on thehouse-top by the door in the roof, a loud shoutproclaimed the fact to those in front, who im-mediately began to pour round, pressing uponeach other in an unbroken stream.

He planted a board, which he had carried upwith him for the purpose, so firmly against the

door that it must be matter of great difficulty toopen it from the inside; and creeping over thetiles, looked over the low parapet.

The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.

The crowd had been hushed during these fewmoments, watching his motions and doubtfulof his purpose, but the instant they perceived itand knew it was defeated, they raised a cry oftriumphant execration to which all their previ-ous shouting had been whispers. Again andagain it rose. Those who were at too great adistance to know its meaning, took up thesound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed asthough the whole city had poured its popula-tion out to curse him.

On pressed the people from the front—on, on,on, in a strong struggling current of angryfaces, with here and there a glaring torch tolighten them up, and show them out in all theirwrath and passion. The houses on the opposite

side of the ditch had been entered by the mob;sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out;there were tiers and tiers of faces in every win-dow; cluster upon cluster of people clinging toevery house-top. Each little bridge (and therewere three in sight) bent beneath the weight ofthe crowd upon it. Still the current poured onto find some nook or hole from which to venttheir shouts, and only for an instant see thewretch.

'They have him now,' cried a man on the near-est bridge. 'Hurrah!'

The crowd grew light with uncovered heads;and again the shout uprose.

'I will give fifty pounds,' cried an old gentle-man from the same quarter, 'to the man whotakes him alive. I will remain here, till he cometo ask me for it.'

There was another roar. At this moment theword was passed among the crowd that thedoor was forced at last, and that he who hadfirst called for the ladder had mounted into theroom. The stream abruptly turned, as this intel-ligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the peo-ple at the windows, seeing those upon thebridges pouring back, quitted their stations,and running into the street, joined the con-course that now thronged pell-mell to the spotthey had left: each man crushing and strivingwith his neighbor, and all panting with impa-tience to get near the door, and look upon thecriminal as the officers brought him out. Thecries and shrieks of those who were pressedalmost to suffocation, or trampled down andtrodden under foot in the confusion, weredreadful; the narrow ways were completelyblocked up; and at this time, between the rushof some to regain the space in front of thehouse, and the unavailing struggles of others toextricate themselves from the mass, the imme-

diate attention was distracted from the mur-derer, although the universal eagerness for hiscapture was, if possible, increased.

The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelledby the ferocity of the crowd, and the impossi-bility of escape; but seeing this sudden changewith no less rapidity than it had occurred, hesprang upon his feet, determined to make onelast effort for his life by dropping into the ditch,and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouringto creep away in the darkness and confusion.

Roused into new strength and energy, andstimulated by the noise within the house whichannounced that an entrance had really beeneffected, he set his foot against the stack ofchimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightlyand firmly round it, and with the other made astrong running noose by the aid of his handsand teeth almost in a second. He could let him-self down by the cord to within a less distance

of the ground than his own height, and had hisknife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop.

At the very instant when he brought the loopover his head previous to slipping it beneathhis arm-pits, and when the old gentleman be-fore-mentioned (who had clung so tight to therailing of the bridge as to resist the force of thecrowd, and retain his position) earnestlywarned those about him that the man wasabout to lower himself down—at that very in-stant the murderer, looking behind him on theroof, threw his arms above his head, and ut-tered a yell of terror.

'The eyes again!' he cried in an unearthlyscreech.

Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost hisbalance and tumbled over the parapet. Thenoose was on his neck. It ran up with hisweight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as thearrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet.

There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsionof the limbs; and there he hung, with the openknife clenched in his stiffening hand.

The old chimney quivered with the shock, butstood it bravely. The murderer swung lifelessagainst the wall; and the boy, thrusting asidethe dangling body which obscured his view,called to the people to come and take him out,for God's sake.

A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ranbackwards and forwards on the parapet with adismal howl, and collecting himself for aspring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders.Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turningcompletely over as he went; and striking hishead against a stone, dashed out his brains.

CHAPTER LI

AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OFMORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE,AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OFMARRIAGE WITH NO WORDOF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY

The events narrated in the last chapter were yetbut two days old, when Oliver found himself,at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town.Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, andthe good doctor were with him: and Mr.Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompa-nied by one other person whose name had notbeen mentioned.

They had not talked much upon the way; forOliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncer-tainty which deprived him of the power of col-lecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and

appeared to have scarcely less effect on hiscompanions, who shared it, in at least an equaldegree. He and the two ladies had been verycarefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlowwith the nature of the admissions which hadbeen forced from Monks; and although theyknew that the object of their present journeywas to complete the work which had been sowell begun, still the whole matter was envel-oped in enough of doubt and mystery to leavethem in endurance of the most intense sus-pense.

The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne'sassistance, cautiously stopped all channels ofcommunication through which they could re-ceive intelligence of the dreadful occurrencesthat so recently taken place. 'It was quite true,'he said, 'that they must know them before long,but it might be at a better time than the present,and it could not be at a worse.' So, they trav-elled on in silence: each busied with reflections

on the object which had brought them together:and no one disposed to give utterance to thethoughts which crowded upon all.

But if Oliver, under these influences, had re-mained silent while they journeyed towards hisbirth-place by a road he had never seen, howthe whole current of his recollections ran backto old times, and what a crowd of emotionswere wakened up in his breast, when theyturned into that which he had traversed onfoot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, withouta friend to help him, or a roof to shelter hishead.

'See there, there!' cried Oliver, eagerly claspingthe hand of Rose, and pointing out at the car-riage window; 'that's the stile I came over; thereare the hedges I crept behind, for fear any oneshould overtake me and force me back! Yonderis the path across the fields, leading to the oldhouse where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick,

my dear old friend, if I could only see younow!'

'You will see him soon,' replied Rose, gentlytaking his folded hands between her own. 'Youshall tell him how happy you are, and how richyou have grown, and that in all your happinessyou have none so great as the coming back tomake him happy too.'

'Yes, yes,' said Oliver, 'and we'll—we'll takehim away from here, and have him clothed andtaught, and send him to some quiet countryplace where he may grow strong and well,—shall we?'

Rose nodded 'yes,' for the boy was smilingthrough such happy tears that she could notspeak.

'You will be kind and good to him, for you areto every one,' said Oliver. 'It will make you cry,I know, to hear what he can tell; but never

mind, never mind, it will be all over, and youwill smile again—I know that too—to thinkhow changed he is; you did the same with me.He said "God bless you" to me when I ranaway,' cried the boy with a burst of affectionateemotion; 'and I will say "God bless you" now,and show him how I love him for it!'

As they approached the town, and at lengthdrove through its narrow streets, it becamematter of no small difficulty to restrain the boywithin reasonable bounds. There was Sower-berry's the undertaker's just as it used to be,only smaller and less imposing in appearancethan he remembered it—there were all thewell-known shops and houses, with almostevery one of which he had some slight incidentconnected—there was Gamfield's cart, the verycart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door—there was the workhouse, thedreary prison of his youthful days, with itsdismal windows frowning on the street—there

was the same lean porter standing at the gate,at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunkback, and then laughed at himself for being sofoolish, then cried, then laughed again—therewere scores of faces at the doors and windowsthat he knew quite well—there was nearly eve-rything as if he had left it but yesterday, and allhis recent life had been but a happy dream.

But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. Theydrove straight to the door of the chief hotel(which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe,and think a mighty palace, but which hadsomehow fallen off in grandeur and size); andhere was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receivethem, kissing the young lady, and the old onetoo, when they got out of the coach, as if hewere the grandfather of the whole party, allsmiles and kindness, and not offering to eat hishead—no, not once; not even when he contra-dicted a very old postboy about the nearestroad to London, and maintained he knew it

best, though he had only come that way once,and that time fast asleep. There was dinnerprepared, and there were bedrooms ready, andeverything was arranged as if by magic.

Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of thefirst half-hour was over, the same silence andconstraint prevailed that had marked theirjourney down. Mr. Brownlow did not join themat dinner, but remained in a separate room. Thetwo other gentlemen hurried in and out withanxious faces, and, during the short intervalswhen they were present, conversed apart.Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and afterbeing absent for nearly an hour, returned witheyes swollen with weeping. All these thingsmade Rose and Oliver, who were not in anynew secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. Theysat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchangeda few words, spoke in whispers, as if they wereafraid to hear the sound of their own voices.

At length, when nine o'clock had come, andthey began to think they were to hear no morethat night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig en-tered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow anda man whom Oliver almost shrieked with sur-prise to see; for they told him it was his brother,and it was the same man he had met at themarket-town, and seen looking in with Fagin atthe window of his little room. Monks cast alook of hate, which, even then, he could notdissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat downnear the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papersin his hand, walked to a table near which Roseand Oliver were seated.

'This is a painful task,' said he, 'but these decla-rations, which have been signed in Londonbefore many gentlemen, must be in substancerepeated here. I would have spared you thedegradation, but we must hear them from yourown lips before we part, and you know why.'

'Go on,' said the person addressed, turningaway his face. 'Quick. I have almost doneenough, I think. Don't keep me here.'

'This child,' said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliverto him, and laying his hand upon his head, 'isyour half-brother; the illegitimate son of yourfather, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by pooryoung Agnes Fleming, who died in giving himbirth.'

'Yes,' said Monks, scowling at the tremblingboy: the beating of whose heart he might haveheard. 'That is the bastard child.'

'The term you use,' said Mr. Brownlow, sternly,'is a reproach to those long since passed beyondthe feeble censure of the world. It reflects dis-grace on no one living, except you who use it.Let that pass. He was born in this town.'

'In the workhouse of this town,' was the sullenreply. 'You have the story there.' He pointedimpatiently to the papers as he spoke.

'I must have it here, too,' said Mr. Brownlow,looking round upon the listeners.

'Listen then! You!' returned Monks. 'His fatherbeing taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife,my mother, from whom he had been long sepa-rated, who went from Paris and took me withher—to look after his property, for what Iknow, for she had no great affection for him,nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for hissenses were gone, and he slumbered on till nextday, when he died. Among the papers in hisdesk, were two, dated on the night his illnessfirst came on, directed to yourself'; he ad-dressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; 'and en-closed in a few short lines to you, with an inti-mation on the cover of the package that it wasnot to be forwarded till after he was dead. One

of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes;the other a will.'

'What of the letter?' asked Mr. Brownlow.

'The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed andcrossed again, with a penitent confession, andprayers to God to help her. He had palmed atale on the girl that some secret mystery—to beexplained one day—prevented his marryingher just then; and so she had gone on, trustingpatiently to him, until she trusted too far, andlost what none could ever give her back. Shewas, at that time, within a few months of herconfinement. He told her all he had meant todo, to hide her shame, if he had lived, andprayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory,or think the consequences of their sin would bevisited on her or their young child; for all theguilt was his. He reminded her of the day hehad given her the little locket and the ring withher christian name engraved upon it, and ablank left for that which he hoped one day to

have bestowed upon her—prayed her yet tokeep it, and wear it next her heart, as she haddone before—and then ran on, wildly, in thesame words, over and over again, as if he hadgone distracted. I believe he had.'

'The will,' said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver's tearsfell fast.

Monks was silent.

'The will,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking forhim, 'was in the same spirit as the letter. Hetalked of miseries which his wife had broughtupon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice,malice, and premature bad passions of you hisonly son, who had been trained to hate him;and left you, and your mother, each an annuityof eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his prop-erty he divided into two equal portions—onefor Agnes Fleming, and the other for theirchild, if it should be born alive, and ever comeof age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the

money unconditionally; but if a boy, only onthe stipulation that in his minority he shouldnever have stained his name with any publicact of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, orwrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confi-dence in the other, and his conviction—onlystrengthened by approaching death—that thechild would share her gentle heart, and noblenature. If he were disappointed in this expecta-tion, then the money was to come to you: forthen, and not till then, when both children wereequal, would he recognise your prior claimupon his purse, who had none upon his heart,but had, from an infant, repulsed him withcoldness and aversion.'

'My mother,' said Monks, in a louder tone, 'didwhat a woman should have done. She burntthis will. The letter never reached its destina-tion; but that, and other proofs, she kept, incase they ever tried to lie away the blot. Thegirl's father had the truth from her with every

aggravation that her violent hate—I love her forit now—could add. Goaded by shame and dis-honour he fled with his children into a remotecorner of Wales, changing his very name thathis friends might never know of his retreat; andhere, no great while afterwards, he was founddead in his bed. The girl had left her home, insecret, some weeks before; he had searched forher, on foot, in every town and village near; itwas on the night when he returned home, as-sured that she had destroyed herself, to hideher shame and his, that his old heart broke.'

There was a short silence here, until Mr.Brownlow took up the thread of the narrative.

'Years after this,' he said, 'this man's—EdwardLeeford's—mother came to me. He had left her,when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels andmoney; gambled, squandered, forged, and fledto London: where for two years he had associ-ated with the lowest outcasts. She was sinkingunder a painful and incurable disease, and

wished to recover him before she died. Inquir-ies were set on foot, and strict searches made.They were unavailing for a long time, but ulti-mately successful; and he went back with her toFrance.'

'There she died,' said Monks, 'after a lingeringillness; and, on her death-bed, she bequeathedthese secrets to me, together with her un-quenchable and deadly hatred of all whomthey involved—though she need not have leftme that, for I had inherited it long before. Shewould not believe that the girl had destroyedherself, and the child too, but was filled withthe impression that a male child had been born,and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossedmy path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; topursue it with the bitterest and most unrelent-ing animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that Ideeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt ofthat insulting will by draggin it, if I could, tothe very gallows-foot. She was right. He came

in my way at last. I began well; and, but forbabbling drabs, I would have finished as I be-gan!'

As the villain folded his arms tight together,and muttered curses on himself in the impo-tence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turnedto the terrified group beside him, and ex-plained that the Jew, who had been his old ac-complice and confidant, had a large reward forkeeping Oliver ensnared: of which some partwas to be given up, in the event of his beingrescued: and that a dispute on this head hadled to their visit to the country house for thepurpose of identifying him.

'The locket and ring?' said Mr. Brownlow, turn-ing to Monks.

'I bought them from the man and woman I toldyou of, who stole them from the nurse, whostole them from the corpse,' answered Monks

without raising his eyes. 'You know what be-came of them.'

Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig,who disappearing with great alacrity, shortlyreturned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and drag-ging her unwilling consort after him.

'Do my hi's deceive me!' cried Mr. Bumble, withill-feigned enthusiasm, 'or is that little Oliver?Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you—'

'Hold your tongue, fool,' murmured Mrs. Bum-ble.

'Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?' remonstratedthe workhouse master. 'Can't I be supposed tofeel—I as brought him up porochially—when Isee him a-setting here among ladies and gen-tlemen of the very affablest description! I al-ways loved that boy as if he'd been my—my—my own grandfather,' said Mr. Bumble, halting

for an appropriate comparison. 'Master Oliver,my dear, you remember the blessed gentlemanin the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heavenlast week, in a oak coffin with plated handles,Oliver.'

'Come, sir,' said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; 'suppressyour feelings.'

'I will do my endeavours, sir,' replied Mr.Bumble. 'How do you do, sir? I hope you arevery well.'

This salutation was addressed to Mr.Brownlow, who had stepped up to within ashort distance of the respectable couple. Heinquired, as he pointed to Monks,

'Do you know that person?'

'No,' replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.

'Perhaps you don't?' said Mr. Brownlow, ad-dressing her spouse.

'I never saw him in all my life,' said Mr. Bum-ble.

'Nor sold him anything, perhaps?'

'No,' replied Mrs. Bumble.

'You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locketand ring?' said Mr. Brownlow.

'Certainly not,' replied the matron. 'Why are webrought here to answer to such nonsense asthis?'

Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig;and again that gentleman limped away withextraordinary readiness. But not again did hereturn with a stout man and wife; for this time,he led in two palsied women, who shook andtottered as they walked.

'You shut the door the night old Sally died,'said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled

hand, 'but you couldn't shut out the sound, norstop the chinks.'

'No, no,' said the other, looking round her andwagging her toothless jaws. 'No, no, no.'

'We heard her try to tell you what she'd done,and saw you take a paper from her hand, andwatched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker'sshop,' said the first.

'Yes,' added the second, 'and it was a "locketand gold ring." We found out that, and saw itgiven you. We were by. Oh! we were by.'

'And we know more than that,' resumed thefirst, 'for she told us often, long ago, that theyoung mother had told her that, feeling sheshould never get over it, she was on her way, atthe time that she was taken ill, to die near thegrave of the father of the child.'

'Would you like to see the pawnbroker him-self?' asked Mr. Grimwig with a motion to-wards the door.

'No,' replied the woman; 'if he—she pointed toMonks—'has been coward enough to confess,as I see he has, and you have sounded all thesehags till you have found the right ones, I havenothing more to say. I did sell them, and they'rewhere you'll never get them. What then?'

'Nothing,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'except that itremains for us to take care that neither of you isemployed in a situation of trust again. You mayleave the room.'

'I hope,' said Mr. Bumble, looking about himwith great ruefulness, as Mr. Grimwig disap-peared with the two old women: 'I hope thatthis unfortunate little circumstance will notdeprive me of my porochial office?'

'Indeed it will,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'Youmay make up your mind to that, and thinkyourself well off besides.'

'It was all Mrs. Bumble. She would do it,' urgedMr. Bumble; first looking round to ascertainthat his partner had left the room.

'That is no excuse,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'Youwere present on the occasion of the destructionof these trinkets, and indeed are the moreguilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for thelaw supposes that your wife acts under yourdirection.'

'If the law supposes that,' said Mr. Bumble,squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands,'the law is a ass—a idiot. If that's the eye of thelaw, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wishthe law is, that his eye may be opened by ex-perience—by experience.'

Laying great stress on the repetition of thesetwo words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on verytight, and putting his hands in his pockets, fol-lowed his helpmate downstairs.

'Young lady,' said Mr. Brownlow, turning toRose, 'give me your hand. Do not tremble. Youneed not fear to hear the few remaining wordswe have to say.'

'If they have—I do not know how they can, butif they have—any reference to me,' said Rose,'pray let me hear them at some other time. Ihave not strength or spirits now.'

'Nay,' returned the old gentlman, drawing herarm through his; 'you have more fortitude thanthis, I am sure. Do you know this young lady,sir?'

'Yes,' replied Monks.

'I never saw you before,' said Rose faintly.

'I have seen you often,' returned Monks.

'The father of the unhappy Agnes had twodaughters,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'What was thefate of the other—the child?'

'The child,' replied Monks, 'when her fatherdied in a strange place, in a strange name,without a letter, book, or scrap of paper thatyielded the faintest clue by which his friends orrelatives could be traced—the child was takenby some wretched cottagers, who reared it astheir own.'

'Go on,' said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs.Maylie to approach. 'Go on!'

'You couldn't find the spot to which these peo-ple had repaired,' said Monks, 'but wherefriendship fails, hatred will often force a way.My mother found it, after a year of cunningsearch—ay, and found the child.'

'She took it, did she?'

'No. The people were poor and began tosicken—at least the man did—of their fine hu-manity; so she left it with them, giving them asmall present of money which would not lastlong, and promised more, which she nevermeant to send. She didn't quite rely, however,on their discontent and poverty for the child'sunhappiness, but told the history of the sister'sshame, with such alterations as suited her; badethem take good heed of the child, for she cameof bad blood; and told them she was illegiti-mate, and sure to go wrong at one time orother. The circumstances countenanced all this;the people believed it; and there the childdragged on an existence, miserable enougheven to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing,then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitiedher, and took her home. There was some cursedspell, I think, against us; for in spite of all ourefforts she remained there and was happy. I

lost sight of her, two or three years ago, andsaw her no more until a few months back.'

'Do you see her now?'

'Yes. Leaning on your arm.'

'But not the less my niece,' cried Mrs. Maylie,folding the fainting girl in her arms; 'not theless my dearest child. I would not lose her now,for all the treasures of the world. My sweetcompanion, my own dear girl!'

'The only friend I ever had,' cried Rose, clingingto her. 'The kindest, best of friends. My heartwill burst. I cannot bear all this.'

'You have borne more, and have been, throughall, the best and gentlest creature that ever shedhappiness on every one she knew,' said Mrs.Maylie, embracing her tenderly. 'Come, come,my love, remember who this is who waits to

clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here—look, look, my dear!'

'Not aunt,' cried Oliver, throwing his armsabout her neck; 'I'll never call her aunt—sister,my own dear sister, that something taught myheart to love so dearly from the first! Rose,dear, darling Rose!'

Let the tears which fell, and the broken wordswhich were exchanged in the long close em-brace between the orphans, be sacred. A father,sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, inthat one moment. Joy and grief were mingledin the cup; but there were no bitter tears: foreven grief itself arose so softened, and clothedin such sweet and tender recollections, that itbecame a solemn pleasure, and lost all charac-ter of pain.

They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap atthe door, at length announced that some one

was without. Oliver opened it, glided away,and gave place to Harry Maylie.

'I know it all,' he said, taking a seat beside thelovely girl. 'Dear Rose, I know it all.'

'I am not here by accident,' he added after alengthened silence; 'nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday—only yesterday.Do you guess that I have come to remind youof a promise?'

'Stay,' said Rose. 'You do know all.'

'All. You gave me leave, at any time within ayear, to renew the subject of our last discourse.'

'I did.'

'Not to press you to alter your determination,'pursued the young man, 'but to hear you repeatit, if you would. I was to lay whatever of stationor fortune I might possess at your feet, and ifyou still adhered to your former determination,

I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek tochange it.'

'The same reasons which influenced me then,will influence me now,' said Rose firmly. 'If Iever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whosegoodness saved me from a life of indigence andsuffering, when should I ever feel it, as I shouldto-night? It is a struggle,' said Rose, 'but one Iam proud to make; it is a pang, but one myheart shall bear.'

'The disclosure of to-night,'—Harry began.

'The disclosure of to-night,' replied Rose softly,'leaves me in the same position, with referenceto you, as that in which I stood before.'

'You harden your heart against me, Rose,'urged her lover.

'Oh Harry, Harry,' said the young lady, burst-ing into tears; 'I wish I could, and spare myselfthis pain.'

'Then why inflict it on yourself?' said Harry,taking her hand. 'Think, dear Rose, think whatyou have heard to-night.'

'And what have I heard! What have I heard!'cried Rose. 'That a sense of his deep disgrace soworked upon my own father that he shunnedall—there, we have said enough, Harry, wehave said enough.'

'Not yet, not yet,' said the young man, detain-ing her as she rose. 'My hopes, my wishes,prospects, feeling: every thought in life exceptmy love for you: have undergone a change. Ioffer you, now, no distinction among a bustlingcrowd; no mingling with a world of malice anddetraction, where the blood is called into hon-est cheeks by aught but real disgrace andshame; but a home—a heart and home—yes,

dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are allI have to offer.'

'What do you mean!' she faltered.

'I mean but this—that when I left you last, I leftyou with a firm determination to level all fan-cied barriers between yourself and me; re-solved that if my world could not be yours, Iwould make yours mine; that no pride of birthshould curl the lip at you, for I would turnfrom it. This I have done. Those who haveshrunk from me because of this, have shrunkfrom you, and proved you so far right. Suchpower and patronage: such relatives of influ-ence and rank: as smiled upon me then, lookcoldly now; but there are smiling fields andwaving trees in England's richest county; andby one village church—mine, Rose, my own!—there stands a rustic dwelling which you canmake me prouder of, than all the hopes I haverenounced, measured a thousandfold. This is

my rank and station now, and here I lay itdown!'

'It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,'said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling hispocket-handkerchief from over his head.

Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting amost unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie,nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together),could offer a word in extenuation.

'I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'for I began to think Ishould get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, ifyou'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is tobe.'

Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this noticeinto effect upon the blushing girl; and the ex-ample, being contagious, was followed both bythe doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people

affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed toset it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; butthe best authorities consider this downrightscandal: he being young and a clergyman.

'Oliver, my child,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'wherehave you been, and why do you look so sad?There are tears stealing down your face at thismoment. What is the matter?'

It is a world of disappointment: often to thehopes we most cherish, and hopes that do ournature the greatest honour.

Poor Dick was dead!

CHAPTER LII

FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE

The court was paved, from floor to roof, withhuman faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peeredfrom every inch of space. From the rail beforethe dock, away into the sharpest angle of thesmallest corner in the galleries, all looks werefixed upon one man—Fagin. Before him andbehind: above, below, on the right and on theleft: he seemed to stand surrounded by a fir-mament, all bright with gleaming eyes.

He stood there, in all this glare of living light,with one hand resting on the wooden slab be-fore him, the other held to his ear, and his headthrust forward to enable him to catch withgreater distinctness every word that fell fromthe presiding judge, who was delivering hischarge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyessharply upon them to observe the effect of the

slightest featherweight in his favour; and whenthe points against him were stated with terribledistinctness, looked towards his counsel, inmute appeal that he would, even then, urgesomething in his behalf. Beyond these manifes-tations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot.He had scarcely moved since the trial began;and now that the judge ceased to speak, he stillremained in the same strained attitude of closeattention, with his gaze bent on him, as thoughhe listened still.

A slight bustle in the court, recalled him tohimself. Looking round, he saw that the jury-man had turned together, to consider their ver-dict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, hecould see the people rising above each other tosee his face: some hastily applying their glassesto their eyes: and others whispering theirneighbours with looks expressive of abhor-rence. A few there were, who seemed unmind-ful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impa-

tient wonder how they could delay. But in noone face—not even among the women, ofwhom there were many there—could he readthe faintest sympathy with himself, or any feel-ing but one of all-absorbing interest that heshould be condemned.

As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, thedeathlike stillness came again, and lookingback he saw that the jurymen had turned to-wards the judge. Hush!

They only sought permission to retire.

He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one byone when they passed out, as though to seewhich way the greater number leant; but thatwas fruitless. The jailer touched him on theshoulder. He followed mechanically to the endof the dock, and sat down on a chair. The manpointed it out, or he would not have seen it.

He looked up into the gallery again. Some ofthe people were eating, and some fanningthemselves with handkerchiefs; for thecrowded place was very hot. There was oneyoung man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like, andlooked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as anyidle spectator might have done.

In the same way, when he turned his eyes to-wards the judge, his mind began to busy itselfwith the fashion of his dress, and what it cost,and how he put it on. There was an old fat gen-tleman on the bench, too, who had gone out,some half an hour before, and now come back.He wondered within himself whether this manhad been to get his dinner, what he had had,and where he had had it; and pursued this trainof careless thought until some new objectcaught his eye and roused another.

Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an in-stant, free from one oppressive overwhelmingsense of the grave that opened at his feet; it wasever present to him, but in a vague and generalway, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it.Thus, even while he trembled, and turnedburning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fellto counting the iron spikes before him, andwondering how the head of one had been bro-ken off, and whether they would mend it, orleave it as it was. Then, he thought of all thehorrors of the gallows and the scaffold—andstopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor tocool it—and then went on to think again.

At length there was a cry of silence, and abreathless look from all towards the door. Thejury returned, and passed him close. He couldglean nothing from their faces; they might aswell have been of stone. Perfect stillness en-sued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty.

The building rang with a tremendous shout,and another, and another, and then it echoedloud groans, that gathered strength as theyswelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal ofjoy from the populace outside, greeting thenews that he would die on Monday.

The noise subsided, and he was asked if he hadanything to say why sentence of death shouldnot be passed upon him. He had resumed hislistening attitude, and looked intently at hisquestioner while the demand was made; but itwas twice repeated before he seemed to hear it,and then he only muttered that he was an oldman—an old man—and so, dropping into awhisper, was silent again.

The judge assumed the black cap, and the pris-oner still stood with the same air and gesture.A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclama-tion, called forth by this dread solemnity; helooked hastily up as if angry at the interrup-tion, and bent forward yet more attentively.

The address was solemn and impressive; thesentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like amarble figure, without the motion of a nerve.His haggard face was still thrust forward, hisunder-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staringout before him, when the jailer put his handupon his arm, and beckoned him away. Hegazed stupidly about him for an instant, andobeyed.

They led him through a paved room under thecourt, where some prisoners were waiting tilltheir turns came, and others were talking totheir friends, who crowded round a gratewhich looked into the open yard. There wasnobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed,the prisoners fell back to render him more visi-ble to the people who were clinging to the bars:and they assailed him with opprobrious names,and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist,and would have spat upon them; but his con-ductors hurried him on, through a gloomy pas-

sage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the inte-rior of the prison.

Here, he was searched, that he might not haveabout him the means of anticipating the law;this ceremony performed, they led him to oneof the condemned cells, and left him there—alone.

He sat down on a stone bench opposite thedoor, which served for seat and bedstead; andcasting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground,tried to collect his thoughts. After awhile, hebegan to remember a few disjointed fragmentsof what the judge had said: though it hadseemed to him, at the time, that he could nothear a word. These gradually fell into theirproper places, and by degrees suggested more:so that in a little time he had the whole, almostas it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck,till he was dead—that was the end. To behanged by the neck till he was dead.

As it came on very dark, he began to think ofall the men he had known who had died uponthe scaffold; some of them through his means.They rose up, in such quick succession, that hecould hardly count them. He had seen some ofthem die,—and had joked too, because theydied with prayers upon their lips. With what arattling noise the drop went down; and howsuddenly they changed, from strong and vigor-ous men to dangling heaps of clothes!

Some of them might have inhabited that verycell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark;why didn't they bring a light? The cell had beenbuilt for many years. Scores of men must havepassed their last hours there. It was like sittingin a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap,the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that heknew, even beneath that hideous veil.—Light,light!

At length, when his hands were raw with beat-ing against the heavy door and walls, two men

appeared: one bearing a candle, which hethrust into an iron candlestick fixed against thewall: the other dragging in a mattress on whichto pass the night; for the prisoner was to be leftalone no more.

Then came the night—dark, dismal, silentnight. Other watchers are glad to hear thischurch-clock strike, for they tell of life and com-ing day. To him they brought despair. Theboom of every iron bell came laden with theone, deep, hollow sound—Death. What availedthe noise and bustle of cheerful morning, whichpenetrated even there, to him? It was anotherform of knell, with mockery added to the warn-ing.

The day passed off. Day? There was no day; itwas gone as soon as come—and night came onagain; night so long, and yet so short; long in itsdreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours.At one time he raved and blasphemed; and atanother howled and tore his hair. Venerable

men of his own persuasion had come to praybeside him, but he had driven them away withcurses. They renewed their charitable efforts,and he beat them off.

Saturday night. He had only one night more tolive. And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday.

It was not until the night of this last awful day,that a withering sense of his helpless, desperatestate came in its full intensity upon his blightedsoul; not that he had ever held any defined orpositive hope of mercy, but that he had neverbeen able to consider more than the dim prob-ability of dying so soon. He had spoken little toeither of the two men, who relieved each otherin their attendance upon him; and they, fortheir parts, made no effort to rouse his atten-tion. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming.Now, he started up, every minute, and withgasping mouth and burning skin, hurried toand fro, in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath

that even they—used to such sights—recoiledfrom him with horror. He grew so terrible, atlast, in all the tortures of his evil conscience,that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeinghim alone; and so the two kept watch together.

He cowered down upon his stone bed, andthought of the past. He had been woundedwith some missiles from the crowd on the dayof his capture, and his head was bandaged witha linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon hisbloodless face; his beard was torn, and twistedinto knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light;his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever thatburnt him up. Eight—nine—then. If it was nota trick to frighten him, and those were the realhours treading on each other's heels, wherewould he be, when they came round again!Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of theprevious hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight,he would be the only mourner in his own fu-neral train; at eleven—

Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which havehidden so much misery and such unspeakableanguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often,and too long, from the thoughts, of men, neverheld so dread a spectacle as that. The few wholingered as they passed, and wondered whatthe man was doing who was to be hanged to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night, ifthey could have seen him.

From early in the evening until nearly mid-night, little groups of two and three presentedthemselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired,with anxious faces, whether any reprieve hadbeen received. These being answered in thenegative, communicated the welcome intelli-gence to clusters in the street, who pointed outto one another the door from which he mustcome out, and showed where the scaffoldwould be built, and, walking with unwillingsteps away, turned back to conjure up thescene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and,

for an hour, in the dead of night, the street wasleft to solitude and darkness.

The space before the prison was cleared, and afew strong barriers, painted black, had beenalready thrown across the road to break thepressure of the expected crowd, when Mr.Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket,and presented an order of admission to theprisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. Theywere immediately admitted into the lodge.

'Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?' saidthe man whose duty it was to conduct them.'It's not a sight for children, sir.'

'It is not indeed, my friend,' rejoined Mr.Brownlow; 'but my business with this man isintimately connected with him; and as thischild has seen him in the full career of his suc-cess and villainy, I think it as well—even at thecost of some pain and fear—that he should seehim now.'

These few words had been said apart, so as tobe inaudible to Oliver. The man touched hishat; and glancing at Oliver with some curi-ousity, opened another gate, opposite to that bywhich they had entered, and led them on,through dark and winding ways, towards thecells.

'This,' said the man, stopping in a gloomy pas-sage where a couple of workmen were makingsome preparations in profound silence—'this isthe place he passes through. If you step thisway, you can see the door he goes out at.'

He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted withcoppers for dressing the prison food, andpointed to a door. There was an open gratingabove it, through which came the sound ofmen's voices, mingled with the noise of ham-mering, and the throwing down of boards.There were putting up the scaffold.

From this place, they passed through severalstrong gates, opened by other turnkeys fromthe inner side; and, having entered an openyard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, andcame into a passage with a row of strong doorson the left hand. Motioning them to remainwhere they were, the turnkey knocked at one ofthese with his bunch of keys. The two atten-dants, after a little whispering, came out intothe passage, stretching themselves as if glad ofthe temporary relief, and motioned the visitorsto follow the jailer into the cell. They did so.

The condemned criminal was seated on hisbed, rocking himself from side to side, with acountenance more like that of a snared beastthan the face of a man. His mind was evidentlywandering to his old life, for he continued tomutter, without appearing conscious of theirpresence otherwise than as a part of his vision.

'Good boy, Charley—well done—' he mum-bled. 'Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite

the gentleman now—quite the—take that boyaway to bed!'

The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver;and, whispering him not to be alarmed, lookedon without speaking.

'Take him away to bed!' cried Fagin. 'Do youhear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this. It's worth themoney to bring him up to it—Bolter's throat,Bill; never mind the girl—Bolter's throat asdeep as you can cut. Saw his head off!'

'Fagin,' said the jailer.

'That's me!' cried the Jew, falling instantly, intothe attitude of listening he had assumed uponhis trial. 'An old man, my Lord; a very old, oldman!'

'Here,' said the turnkey, laying his hand uponhis breast to keep him down. 'Here's somebody

wants to see you, to ask you some questions, Isuppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?'

'I shan't be one long,' he replied, looking upwith a face retaining no human expression butrage and terror. 'Strike them all dead! Whatright have they to butcher me?'

As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr.Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthest corner ofthe seat, he demanded to know what theywanted there.

'Steady,' said the turnkey, still holding himdown. 'Now, sir, tell him what you want.Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as thetime gets on.'

'You have some papers,' said Mr. Brownlowadvancing, 'which were placed in your hands,for better security, by a man called Monks.'

'It's all a lie together,' replied Fagin. 'I haven'tone—not one.'

'For the love of God,' said Mr. Brownlow sol-emnly, 'do not say that now, upon the veryverge of death; but tell me where they are. Youknow that Sikes is dead; that Monks has con-fessed; that there is no hope of any further gain.Where are those papers?'

'Oliver,' cried Fagin, beckoning to him. 'Here,here! Let me whisper to you.'

'I am not afraid,' said Oliver in a low voice, ashe relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand.

'The papers,' said Fagin, drawing Oliver to-wards him, 'are in a canvas bag, in a hole a littleway up the chimney in the top front-room. Iwant to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk toyou.'

'Yes, yes,' returned Oliver. 'Let me say a prayer.Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, uponyour knees, with me, and we will talk till morn-ing.'

'Outside, outside,' replied Fagin, pushing theboy before him towards the door, and lookingvacantly over his head. 'Say I've gone to sleep—they'll believe you. You can get me out, if youtake me so. Now then, now then!'

'Oh! God forgive this wretched man!' cried theboy with a burst of tears.

'That's right, that's right,' said Fagin. 'That'llhelp us on. This door first. If I shake and trem-ble, as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, buthurry on. Now, now, now!'

'Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?' in-quired the turnkey.

'No other question,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'If Ihoped we could recall him to a sense of his po-sition—'

'Nothing will do that, sir,' replied the man,shaking his head. 'You had better leave him.'

The door of the cell opened, and the attendantsreturned.

'Press on, press on,' cried Fagin. 'Softly, but notso slow. Faster, faster!'

The men laid hands upon him, and disengag-ing Oliver from his grasp, held him back. Hestruggled with the power of desperation, for aninstant; and then sent up cry upon cry thatpenetrated even those massive walls, and rangin their ears until they reached the open yard.

It was some time before they left the prison.Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene,

and was so weak that for an hour or more, hehad not the strength to walk.

Day was dawning when they again emerged. Agreat multitude had already assembled; thewindows were filled with people, smoking andplaying cards to beguile the time; the crowdwere pushing, quarrelling, joking. Everythingtold of life and animation, but one dark clusterof objects in the centre of all—the black stage,the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideousapparatus of death.

CHAPTER LIII

AND LAST

The fortunes of those who have figured in thistale are nearly closed. The little that remains to

their historian to relate, is told in few and sim-ple words.

Before three months had passed, Rose Flemingand Harry Maylie were married in the villagechurch which was henceforth to be the scene ofthe young clergyman's labours; on the sameday they entered into possession of their newand happy home.

Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her sonand daughter-in-law, to enjoy, during the tran-quil remainder of her days, the greatest felicitythat age and worth can know—the contempla-tion of the happiness of those on whom thewarmest affections and tenderest cares of awell-spent life, have been unceasingly be-stowed.

It appeared, on full and careful investigation,that if the wreck of property remaining in thecustody of Monks (which had never prosperedeither in his hands or in those of his mother)

were equally divided between himself andOliver, it would yield, to each, little more thanthree thousand pounds. By the provisions ofhis father's will, Oliver would have been enti-tled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwillingto deprive the elder son of the opportunity ofretrieving his former vices and pursuing anhonest career, proposed this mode of distribu-tion, to which his young charge joyfully ac-ceded.

Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retiredwith his portion to a distant part of the NewWorld; where, having quickly squandered it, heonce more fell into his old courses, and, afterundergoing a long confinement for some freshact of fraud and knavery, at length sunk underan attack of his old disorder, and died inprison. As far from home, died the chief re-maining members of his friend Fagin's gang.

Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Re-moving with him and the old housekeeper to

within a mile of the parsonage-house, wherehis dear friends resided, he gratified the onlyremaining wish of Oliver's warm and earnestheart, and thus linked together a little society,whose condition approached as nearly to one ofperfect happiness as can ever be known in thischanging world.

Soon after the marriage of the young people,the worthy doctor returned to Chertsey, where,bereft of the presence of his old friends, hewould have been discontented if his tempera-ment had admitted of such a feeling; andwould have turned quite peevish if he hadknown how. For two or three months, he con-tented himself with hinting that he feared theair began to disagree with him; then, findingthat the place really no longer was, to him,what it had been, he settled his business on hisassistant, took a bachelor's cottage outside thevillage of which his young friend was pastor,and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to

gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, andvarious other pursuits of a similar kind: all un-dertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. Ineach and all he has since become famousthroughout the neighborhood, as a most pro-found authority.

Before his removal, he had managed to contracta strong friendship for Mr. Grimwig, whichthat eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated.He is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig agreat many times in the course of the year. Onall such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes,and carpenters, with great ardour; doing every-thing in a very singular and unprecedentedmanner, but always maintaining with his fa-vourite asseveration, that his mode is the rightone. On Sundays, he never fails to criticise thesermon to the young clergyman's face: alwaysinforming Mr. Losberne, in strict confidenceafterwards, that he considers it an excellentperformance, but deems it as well not to say so.

It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr.Brownlow to rally him on his old prophecyconcerning Oliver, and to remind him of thenight on which they sat with the watch be-tween them, waiting his return; but Mr. Grim-wig contends that he was right in the main,and, in proof thereof, remarks that Oliver didnot come back after all; which always callsforth a laugh on his side, and increases hisgood humour.

Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardonfrom the Crown in consequence of being admit-ted approver against Fagin: and considering hisprofession not altogether as safe a one as hecould wish: was, for some little time, at a lossfor the means of a livelihood, not burdenedwith too much work. After some consideration,he went into business as an Informer, in whichcalling he realises a genteel subsistence. Hisplan is, to walk out once a week during churchtime attended by Charlotte in respectable attire.

The lady faints away at the doors of charitablepublicans, and the gentleman being accommo-dated with three-penny worth of brandy torestore her, lays an information next day, andpockets half the penalty. Sometimes Mr. Clay-pole faints himself, but the result is the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situa-tions, were gradually reduced to great indi-gence and misery, and finally became paupersin that very same workhouse in which they hadonce lorded it over others. Mr. Bumble hasbeen heard to say, that in this reverse and deg-radation, he has not even spirits to be thankfulfor being separated from his wife.

As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain intheir old posts, although the former is bald, andthe last-named boy quite grey. They sleep at theparsonage, but divide their attentions soequally among its inmates, and Oliver and Mr.Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day

the villagers have never been able to discoverto which establishment they properly belong.

Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes's crime,fell into a train of reflection whether an honestlife was not, after all, the best. Arriving at theconclusion that it certainly was, he turned hisback upon the scenes of the past, resolved toamend it in some new sphere of action. Hestruggled hard, and suffered much, for sometime; but, having a contented disposition, and agood purpose, succeeded in the end; and, frombeing a farmer's drudge, and a carrier's lad, heis now the merriest young grazier in all North-amptonshire.

And now, the hand that traces these words,falters, as it approaches the conclusion of itstask; and would weave, for a little longer space,the thread of these adventures.

I would fain linger yet with a few of thoseamong whom I have so long moved, and share

their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. Iwould show Rose Maylie in all the bloom andgrace of early womanhood, shedding on hersecluded path in life soft and gentle light, thatfell on all who trod it with her, and shone intotheir hearts. I would paint her the life and joyof the fire-side circle and the lively summergroup; I would follow her through the sultryfields at noon, and hear the low tones of hersweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; Iwould watch her in all her goodness and char-ity abroad, and the smiling untiring dischargeof domestic duties at home; I would paint herand her dead sister's child happy in their lovefor one another, and passing whole hours to-gether in picturing the friends whom they hadso sadly lost; I would summon before me, onceagain, those joyous little faces that clusteredround her knee, and listen to their merry prat-tle; I would recall the tones of that clear laugh,and conjure up the sympathising tear that glis-tened in the soft blue eye. These, and a thou-

sand looks and smiles, and turns of thoughtand speech—I would fain recall them everyone.

How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day,filling the mind of his adopted child with storesof knowledge, and becoming attached to him,more and more, as his nature developed itself,and showed the thriving seeds of all he wishedhim to become—how he traced in him newtraits of his early friend, that awakened in hisown bosom old remembrances, melancholyand yet sweet and soothing—how the two or-phans, tried by adversity, remembered its les-sons in mercy to others, and mutual love, andfervent thanks to Him who had protected andpreserved them—these are all matters whichneed not to be told. I have said that they weretruly happy; and without strong affection andhumanity of heart, and gratitude to that Beingwhose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute

is Benevolence to all things that breathe, happi-ness can never be attained.

Within the altar of the old village church therestands a white marble tablet, which bears as yetbut one word: 'AGNES.' There is no coffin inthat tomb; and may it be many, many years,before another name is placed above it! But, ifthe spirits of the Dead ever come back to earth,to visit spots hallowed by the love—the lovebeyond the grave—of those whom they knewin life, I believe that the shade of Agnes some-times hovers round that solemn nook. I believeit none the less because that nook is in aChurch, and she was weak and erring.