He was an eccentric old man, and was loud in his exclamations of distrust in this boy whom Mr. Brownlow was harbouring.

“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!” said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table.

“And I for his falsehood with my head!” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.

“We shall see!” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.

“We will!” said Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.”

Just then Mrs. Bedwin brought in some books which had been bought of the identical book stall-keeper who has already figured in this history.  Mr. Brownlow was greatly disturbed that the boy who brought them had not waited, as there were some other books to be returned.

“Send Oliver with them,” suggested Mr. Grimwig, “he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know!”

“Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver “I’ll run all the way, sir.”

Mr. Brownlow was about to refuse to have Oliver go out, when Mr. Grimwig’s malicious cough made him change his mind, and let the boy go.

“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, “that you have brought those books back; and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him.  This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shilling change.”

“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” replied Oliver, eagerly, as with a respectful bow he left the room.  Mrs. Bedwin watched him out of sight exclaiming, “Bless his sweet face!”—­while Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the corner.

Then Mr. Brownlow drew out his watch and waited, while Mr. Grimwig asserted that the boy would never be back.  “He has a new suit of clothes on his back; a set of valuable books under his arm; and a five-pound note in his pocket.  He’ll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you.  If ever that boy returns to this house, sir,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll eat my head!”

It grew so dark that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible.  The gas lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them, waiting—­but Oliver did not come.

He meanwhile, had walked along, on his way to the bookstall, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel, when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud, “Oh, my dear brother!”—­and then he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.

“Don’t!” cried Oliver, struggling.  “Let go of Who is it?  What are you stopping me for?”

“Oh my gracious!” said the young woman, “I’ve found him!  Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer sich distress on your account!  Come home, dear, come!” With these and more incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst out crying, and told the onlookers that Oliver was her brother, who had run away from his respectable parents a month ago, joined a gang of thieves and almost broke his mother’s heart,—­to which Oliver, greatly alarmed, replied that he was an orphan, had no sister, and lived at Pentonville.  Then, catching sight of the woman’s face for the first time, he cried,—­“Why, it’s Nancy!”