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shop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave
way to the feelings which the day’s
treatment may be supposed likely to have
awakened in a mere child. He had list¬
ened to their taunts with a look of dogged
contempt; he had borne the lash withodt
a cry, for he felt that pride swell
heart which would have kept down a
shriek to the last, if they had roasted him
alive. But, now that there were none to
see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on
the floor, and, hiding his face in his hands,
wept such tears as God send for the credit
of our nature, few so young may ever have
cause to pour out before him.
For a long time Oliver remained mo¬
tionless in this attitude. The candle was
burning low in the socket when he rose
to his feet, and having gazed cautiously
round him, and listened intently, gently
undid the fastenings of the door and looked
abroad.
It was a cold dark night. The stars
seemed to the boy’s eyes further from the
earth than he had ever seen them before ;
there was no wind, and the sombre sha¬
dows thrown by the trees on the earth
looked sepulchral and death-like, from
being so still. He softly reclosed the
door, and, having availed himself of the
expiring light of the candle to tie up in a
handkerchief the few articles of wearing
apparel he had, sat himself down upon a
bench to wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled
. through the crevices in the shutters Oliver
rose, and again unbarred the door. One
timid look around,—one moment’s pause
of hesitation, —he had closed it behind
him, and was in the open street.
uncertain whither to fly. Heremembered
to have seen the wagons as they went out,
toiling up the hill; he took the same route,
and arriving at a footpath across the fields,
which he thought after some distance led
out again into the road, struck into it, and
walked 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 of the cottage. His heart
beat quickly when he bethought himself of
this, and he half resolved to turn back.
He had come a long way though, and
should lose a great deal of time by doing
so. Besides, it was so early that there
was very little fear of his being seen; so
he walked on.
He reached the house. There was no
appearance of its inmates stirring at that
early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped
into the garden. A child was weeding
one of the little beds; and, as he stopped,
he raised his pale face, and disclosed the
features of one of his former companions.
Oliver felt glad to see him before he went,
for, though younger than himself, he had
been his Jittle friend and playmate; they
had been beaten, and starved, and shut up
together, many and many a time.
“ Hush, Dick!” said Oliver, as the boy
ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm
between the rails to greet him. “Is any
one up?”
c Nobody but me,” replied the child.
“You mustn’t say you saw me, Dick,”
said Oliver; “I am running away. They
beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am goin
to seek my fortune some long way off,
don’t know where. How pale you are!”
4] heard the doctor tell them I was
dying,” replied the child with a faint smile.
“T am very glad to see you, dear; but
don’t stop, don’t stop.”
6 Yes, yes, I wil, to say good bye to
you,” replied Oliver. “I shall see you
again, Dick; I know I shall. You will
be well and happy.”
“ T hope so,” replied the child, “ after I
am dead, but not before. I know the doc¬
tor must be right, Oliver; because [ dream
so much of heaven, and angels, and kind |
faces, that I never see when I am awake.
Kiss me,” said the child, climbing up the
low gate, and flinging his little arms round
Oliver’s neck. ‘Good bye, dear! God
bless you!"
The blessing was from a yo child’s
lips, but it was the first that Oliver had
ever heard invoked upon his head; and
through all the struggles and sufferings of
his after-life, through all the troubles and
changes of many weary years, he never
once forgot it.
ee ———
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
Oliver walks to London, and encounters on the road
a strange sort of young gentleman.
OLIVER reached the stile at which the
by-path terminated, and once more gained
the high-road. It was eight o’clock now ;
and, though he was nearly five miles away
from the town, he ran, and hid behind the
hedges by turns, till noon, fearing that he
might be pursued and overtaken. ‘Then
he sat down to rest at the side of a mile¬
stone, and began to think for the first time
where he had better go and try to live.