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cottage-walls, the oi e crept round an) tha at of the trees, an d zett flowers rfumed the air with delicious odours. ard by, was a little churchyard: not crowded with tall, unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds covered with fresh turf and moss, beneath which the old people of the village lay at rest. | Oliver often wandered bere, and, thinking of the wretched grave in which his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen ; but, as he raised his eyes to the deep sky overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in the ground, and weep for her sadly, but without It was a happy time. The days were szazon and serene, and the nights rought with them no fear or care, no languishing in a wretched prison, or associating with wretched men: nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman, who lived near the little church, who taught him to read better and to write, and spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that ¢ Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of var a or perhaps sit near them in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read, which he could have done til it grew too dark to see the letters. Then he had his own Jesson for the next day to prepare, and at this he would work hard in a little room which looked into the garden, 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 he mtx F climb to reach, or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch, that he could never be quick enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home, the you lady would ait down to the piano, an pay some melancholy air, or sing in a ow and gentle voice some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There would be no candles at such times as these, and Oliver would sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music, while tears of tranguil joy stole down his face. And, when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent from any manner in whieh he had ever spent it yet! and how happily, too, like all the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows, 127 the birds singing without, and the sweetsmelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the homely building with its rance. The poor people were so neat clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there together; and, though the singing might be rude, it was real, and sounded more musical (to Oliver’s ears at least) than any he had ever heard in church before. Then there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and pleased than if he had been the clergyman himself. In the morning Oliver would be a-foot by six o’clock, roaming the fields and surveying the hedges far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with which he would return laden home, and which it took great care and consideration to arrange to the best advantage for the embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie’s birds, with which Oliver,—who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk,—would decorate the cages in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the village, or failing that, there was always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver —who had studied this science also under the same master, who was a gardener b trade,—applied himself with hearty §g will till Miss Rose made her appearance, when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed upon all he had done, for which one of those lighthearted beautiful smiles was an ample recompense. So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals, would have been unmixed happiness ; but which, in Oliver’s troubled and clouded dawn, were felicity indeed. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one side, and the truest, and warmest, and most soul-felt eratitude on the other, it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart was repaid Dg Melt pride in, and attachment to, himself. '
