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lation, that in his minority he should ne¬
ver have stained his name with any public
act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or
wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his
sea a in the mother, and his convic¬
tion—only strengthened by approaching
death—that the child would share her
gentle heart and noble nature. If he
was disappointed in this expectation,
then the money was to come to you, for
then, and not till then, when both chil¬
dren were equal, would he recognise your
prior claim upon his purse, who had none
upon his heart, but had, from an infant,
repulsed him with coldness and aver¬
sion.”
My mother,” said Monks in a louder
tone, “did what a woman should have
done —she burnt this will. The letter
never reached its destination, but that and
other proofs she kept, in case they ever
ther had the truth from her, with every
aggravation that her violent hate—I love
her for it now—could add. Goaded by
shame and dishonour, he fled with his
children into a remote corner of Wales,
changing his very name, that his friends
might never know of his retreat; and
here, no great while afterwards, he was
found dead in his bed. The girl had left
her home in secret some weeks before ;
he had searched for her on foot in every
town and village near, and it was on the
night that he returned home, assured that
she had destroyed herself, to hide her
shame and his, that his old heart broke."
There was a short silence here, until
Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of the
narrative.
“ Years after this,” he said, § this man’s
—Edward Leeford’s—mother came to me.
He had left her when only eighteen ; rob¬
bed her of jewels and money; gambled,
squandered, forged, and fled to London,
where, for two years, he had associated
with the lowest outcasts. She was sink¬
ing under a painful and incurable disease,
and wished to recover him before she died.
Enquiries were set on foot; strict searches
made—unavaiing for a long time—but
ultimately successful—and he went back
with her to France.”
c There she died,” said Monks, “ after
a lingering illness; and on her death-bed
she bequeathed these secrets to me, to¬
ether with her unquenchable and deadly
atred of all whom they involved, though
she need not have left me that, for I had
inherited it long before. She would not
believe that the girl had destroyed her¬
self and the child too, but was filled with
the impression that a male child had been
born, and was alive. I swore to her, if
ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down;
never to let it rest, to pursue it with the
bitterest and most unrelenting animosity ;
to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply
felt; and to spit upon the empty vaunt
of that insulting will by dragging it, if I
could, to the very gallows’ foot. She
was right. He came in my way at last;
I began well, and, but for babbling drabs,
I would have finished as I began; I
would, I would!”
. As the villain folded his arms tight to¬
gether, and muttered curses on himself
in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr.
Brownlow turned to the terrified group
beside him, and explained that the Jew,
who had been his old accomplice and con¬
fidant, had a large loaned for keeping
Oliver ensnared, of which some part was
to be given up in the event of his bein
rescued, and that a dispute on this h
had led to their visit to the country-house
for the purpose of identifying him.
‘The locket and ring ?” said Mr. Brown¬
low, turning to Monks.
“T bought them from the man and wo¬
man I told you of, who stole them from
the corpse,” answered Monks, without
raising his eyes.» " You know what be¬
came of them." ¬
Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr.
Grimwig, who, disappearing with great
alacrity, shortly returned, pera in
Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling
consort after him.
“Do my hi’s deceive me!” cried Mr.
Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, “ or
is that little Oliver? Oh, O-li-ver, if you
know’d how I’ve been grieving for you!"
“ Hold your tongue, fool,” murmured
Mrs. Bumble.
“Isn’t natur natur, Mrs. Bumble?”
remonstrated the work-house master.
“‘Can’t I be suffered to feel—I as brought
setting here among ladies and gentlemen
of the very affablest description! I al¬
ways loved that boy as if he’d been my—
my—my own grandfather,” said Mr.
Bumble, halting for an appropriate com¬
parison. ‘ Master Oliver, my dear, you
remember the blessed gentleman in the
white waistcoat? Ah! he went to hea¬
ven last week in a oak coffin with plated
handles, Oliver.”
c Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig, tartly,
“suppress your feelings.”
s] will do my endeavours, sir,? replied
Mr. Bumble. “How do you do, sir? I
hope you are very well.”