“What’s the matter?” inquired the Dodger.

“I can’t help it,” said Charley, “I can’t help it!  To see him splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up against the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him—­oh, my eye!” The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong colours, and he rolled upon a door-step and laughed louder than before.

“What’ll Fagin say?” inquired the Dodger, and the question sobered Master Bates at once, as both boys stood in great dread of the Jew.  And their worst fears were realised.  Fagin was livid with rage at the loss of his promising pupil, as well as fearful of the disclosures he might make.  After long consultation on the subject, it was agreed by the band that Nancy was to go to the police station in a disguised dress, to find out what had been done with Oliver, for whom she was to search as her “dear little lost brother.”

Meanwhile Oliver lay for many days burning with fever and unconscious of his surroundings, in the quietly comfortable home of Mr. Brownlow at Pentonville.  At length, weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke from what seemed a dream, and found himself being nursed by Mrs. Bedwin, Mr. Brownlow’s motherly old house-keeper, and visited constantly by the doctor.  Gradually he grew stronger, and soon could sit up a little.  Those were happy, peaceful days of his recovery, the only happy ones he had ever known.  Everybody was so kind and gentle that it seemed like Heaven itself, as he sat by the fireside in the house-keeper’s room.  On the wall hung a portrait of a beautiful, mild, lady with sorrowful eyes, of which Oliver was the living copy.  Every feature was the same—­to Mr. Brownlow’s intense astonishment, as he gazed from it to Oliver.

Later, Oliver heard the history of the portrait and his own connection with it.

When he was strong enough to put his clothes on, Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him.  Oliver gave his old clothes to one of the servants who had been kind to him, and she sold them to a Jew who came to the house.

One evening Mr. Brownlow sent up word to have Oliver come down into his study and see him for a little while,—­so Mrs. Bedwin helped him to prepare himself, and although there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and handsome, that she surveyed him with great complacency.

Mr. Brownlow was reading, but when he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away, and told him to come near, and sit down, which Oliver did.  Then the old gentleman began to talk kindly of what Oliver’s future was to be.  Instantly the boy became pallid with fright, and implored Mr. Brownlow to let him stay with him, as a servant, as anything, only not to send him out into the streets again, and the old gentleman, touched by the appeal, assured the boy that unless he should deceive him, he would be his faithful friend.  He then asked Oliver to relate the whole story of his life, which he was beginning to do when an old friend of Mr. Brownlow’s—­a Mr. Grimwig,—­entered.