eyes watering in unison, and her power of speech quite gone.  With the hamper appeared also a nice old lady, who bustled about on tiptoe, began to make chicken-broth, and peel oranges for the sick man, and to ply the small servant with glasses of wine, and choice bits of everything.  The whole of which was so bewildering that Mr. Swiveller, when he had taken two oranges and a little jelly, was fain to lie down and fall asleep again, from sheer inability to entertain such wonders in his mind.

Meanwhile the other gentlemen, who had left Richard Swiveller’s room, had retired to a coffee-house near by, from whence they sent a peremptory and mysterious summons to Miss Sally Brass to favor them with her company there as soon as possible.  To this she replied by an almost immediate appearance, whereupon, without any loss of time, she was confronted with the tale of the small servant.  While it was being related for her benefit, Sampson Brass himself suddenly opened the door of the coffee-house and joined the astonished group.  Hearing the certain proofs of his guilt so clearly related, he saw that evasion was useless, and made a full confession of the scheme whereby Kit was to have been doomed, but laying the entire blame, however, upon the rich little dwarf, Quilp, saying that he could not afford to lose his rich client, nor the large bribe he offered for the arrest of the lad, Kit.

Having secured the desired confession, the gentlemen hastened back to Mr. Swiveller’s room with the glad tidings, adding that it would now be possible to accomplish the lad’s immediate release, after making which joyful statement, they took their departure for the night, leaving the invalid with the small servant and one of their number, Mr. Witherden, the notary, who remained behind to be the bearer of good news to the invalid.

“I have been making some inquiries about you,” said Mr. Witherden, “little thinking that I should find you under such circumstances as those which have brought us together.  You are the nephew of Rebecca Swiveller, spinster, deceased, of Cheselbourne, in Dorsetshire.”

“Deceased!” cried Dick.

“Deceased.  And by the terms of her will, you have fallen into an annuity of one hundred and fifty pounds a year; I think I may congratulate you upon that.”

“Sir,” said Dick, sobbing and laughing together, “you may.  For, please God, we’ll make a scholar of the poor Marchioness yet.  And she shall walk in silk attire, and siller have to spare, or may I never rise from this bed again!”

Mr. Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his illness, even with the strong tonic of his good fortune, and entering into the receipt of his annuity, bought for the Marchioness a handsome stock of clothes, and put her to school forthwith, in redemption of the vow he had made upon his fevered bed.