Oldal 83 [83]
ol
reduced to the regulation strength, for
three hundred and fifty paupers, at the
very lowest computation.
“ Are you fond of pictures, dear?" in¬
uired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had
ed his eyes most intently on a portrait
which hung against the wall just opposite
his chair.
“| don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oli¬
ver, without taking his eyes from the
canvas; “I have seen so few, that I
hardly know. What a beautiful mild face
that lady’s is!”
“Ah,” said the old lady, “ painters al¬
ways make Jadies out prettier than they
are, or they wouldn’t get any custom,
child. The man that invented the ma¬
chine for taking likenesses might have
known that would never succeed; it’s a
deal too honest,—a deal,” said the old la¬
dy, langhing very heartily at her own
acuteness.
“Ts—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said
Oliver.
“ Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for
a moment from the broth; “that’s a por¬
trait.”
c Whose, ma’am?’ asked Oliver ea¬
gery,
“ Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,”
answered the old lady in a good-humoured
manner. It’s not a likeness of anybody
that you or I know, I expect. It seems to
strike your fancy, dear.”
“It is so very pretty—so very beauti¬
ful,” replied ‘Oliver.
“ Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?”
said the old lady, observing in great sur¬
prise the look of awe with which the child
regarded the painting.
“ Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly ;
‘but the eyes look so sorrowful, and where
I sit they seem 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 and nervous after
your illness. Let me wheel your chair
round to the other side, and then you won’t
see it. There,” said the old lady, suiting
the action to the word; “ you don’t see it
now, at all events.”
_ Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as
distinctly as if he had not altered his posi¬
tion, but he thought it better not to worry
solemn a preparation. Oliver got through
it with extraordinary expedition, and had
scarcely swallowed the last spoonful when
there came a soft tap at the door. § Come
in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr.
Brownlow.
Now the old gentleman came in as brisk
as need be; but he had no sooner raised
his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust
his hands behind the skirts of his dressing¬
gown to take a good long look at Oliver,
than his countenance underwent a very
erent variety of odd contortions. Oliver
ooked very worn and shadowy from sick¬
stand up, out of respect to his benefactor,
which terminated in his sinking back into
the chair again; and the fact is, if the
truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s
heart being large enough for any six ordi¬
nary old gentlemen of humane disposition,
some hydraulic process which we are not
sufficiently philosophical to be in a condi¬
tion to explain.
6 Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brown¬
low clearing his throat. “I’m rather
hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin; I’m
afraid I have caught cold.” " .
“T hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin.
“ Everything you have had has been well
aired, sir.”
* [ dont’t know, Bedwin,—I don’t know,”
said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather think I had
a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday :
my dear!"
“ Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver, " and
very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness
to me.”
“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow stoutly.
“ Have you: given him any nourisnment,
Bedwin '—any slops, eh?"
“He has just had a basin of beautiful
strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin,
drawing herself up slightly, and laying a
strong emphasis on the last word, to inti
mate that between slops, and broth well
compounded, there existed no affinity or
connexion whatsoever.
“Uch!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a
slight shudder; “a couple of glasses of port
wine would have done him a great deal
more good,—wouldn’t they, Tom White,
—eh ?”
“ My name is Oliver, sir," replied the
little invalid with a look of great aston
when she looked at him, and Mrs. Bedwin,
satisfied that he felt more comfortable,
salted and broke bits of toasted bread into
“Oliver!” said Mr. Brownlow; § Oli
ver what? Oliver White,—eh?
66 No, sir, Twist —Oliver Twist.”
“ Queer name,” said the old gentleman,