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ol reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the very lowest computation. “ Are you fond of pictures, dear?" inuired 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 Oliver, 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 always make Jadies out prettier than they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it’s a deal too honest,—a deal,” said the old lady, 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 portrait.” c Whose, ma’am?’ asked Oliver eagery, “ 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 beautiful,” replied ‘Oliver. “ Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady, observing in great surprise 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 position, 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 dressinggown 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 sickstand 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 ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain. 6 Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow 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,
