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they were present conversed apart. Once
Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after
being absent for nearly an hour, returned
with eyes swollen with weeping. All
these things made Rose and Oliver, who
were not in any new secrets, nervous and
uncomfortable. They sat wondering in
silence, or, if they exchanged a few words,
spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid
to hear the sound of their own voices.
At length, when nine o’clock had come,
and they began to think they were to hear
no more that night, Mr. Losberne and
Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed
by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver
almost shrieked with surprise to see; for
they told him it was his brother, and it
market-town, and seen looking in with
Fagin at the window of his little room.
ile cast a look of hate, which even then
he could not dissemble, at the astonished
boy, and sat down near the door. Mr.
Brownlow, who had papers in his hand,
walked to a table, near which Rose and
Oliver were seated.
“This isa painful task,” said he. * But
these declarations, which have been sign¬
ed in London before many gentlemen,
must be in substance repeated here. I
would have spared you the degradation,
but we must have them from your own
lips before we part, and you know why.”
“Go on," said the person addressed,
turning away his face. “ Quick. I have
done enough. Don’t keep me here.”
6 "This child,” said Mr. Brownlow,
drawing Oliver to him, and laying his
hand upon his head, "is your half-brother,
the illegitimate son of your father, and
my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor
young Agnes Fleming, who died in giv¬
ing him birth.”
“ Yes,” said Monks, scowling at the
trembling boy, the beating of whose heart
he might have heard. " That is their
bastard child.”
“The term you use, said Mr. Brown¬
low, sternly, “is a reproach to those who
long since passed beyond the feeble cen¬
sure of this world. It reflects true dis¬
grace on no one living except you who
this town?’
66 In the workhouse of this town,” was
the sullen reply. " You have the story
there.” He pointed emphatically to the
papers as he spoke.
“Tl must have it here, too,” said Mr.
Brownlow, icoxing round upon the list¬
eners.
* Listen, then,” returned Monks. “ His
father being taken ill at Rome, as you
know, was joined by his wife, my mother,
from whom he had been long separated,
who went from Paris, and took me with
her—to look after his property for what
I know, for she had no great affection for
him, nor he for her. He knew nothing
of us, for his senses were gone; and he
slumbered on till next day, when he died.
Among the papers in his desk, were two
dated on the night his illness first came
on, directed to yourself, and enclosed in
a few short lines to you, with an intima¬
tion on the cover of the package that it
was not to be forwarded till he was dead.
One of these papers was a letter to this
girl Agnes, and the other a will.”
“What of the letter?” asked Mr.
Brownlow.
“The letter! a sheet of paper crossed
and crossed again with a penitent confes¬
sion, and prayers to God to help her. He
had palmed a tale upon the girl, that
some secret mystery—to be explained
one day—prevented his marrying her
just then, and so she had gone on, trust¬
ing patiently to him, until she trusted
too far, and lost what none could give
her back. She was at that time within
a few months of her confinement. He
told her all he had meant to do to hide
her shame if he had lived, and prayed her,
if he died, not to curse his memory, or
think the consequences of their sin would
be visited on her or their young child;
for all the guilt was his. He reminded
her of the day he had given her the little
locket and the ring with her christian
name engraved upon it, and a blank left
for that which he hoped one day to have
bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to
keep it, and wear it next her heart, as
she had done before—and then ran on
wildly in the same words over and over
again, as if he had gone distracted—as I
believe he had.”
c "The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, as Oli¬
ver’s tears fell fast. “I will go on to
that. The will was in the same spirit.
He talked of miseries, which his wife had
brought upon him, of the rebellious dispo¬
sition, vice, malice, and premature bad
passions of you, his only son, who had
been trained to hate him, and left you and
your mother each an annuity of eight
hundred pounds. The bulk of his pro¬
perty he divided into two equal portions
—one for Agnes Fleming, and the other
for their child, if it should be born alive
and ever come of age. If it was a girl,
it was to come into the money uncondl¬