They drove at once to the hotel where Mr. Brownlow joined them with Monks, and there in the presence of the whole party, the wretched man made his full confession of guilt, and surrendered one half of the property—­about three thousand pounds—­to his half-brother, upon whom even as he spoke, he cast looks of hatred so violent that Oliver trembled.  From some details of his confession it was also discovered that Rose Maylie, who was only an adopted niece of Mrs. Maylie, had been the sister of Oliver’s mother, and was therefore the boy’s aunt, the first blood relation, except Monks, that he had ever possessed.

“Not aunt,” cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck, “I’ll never call her aunt.  Sister, my own, dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first, Rose! dear, darling Rose!” And in Rose’s close embrace, the boy found compensation for all his past sadness.

The only link to his old life which remained was soon broken.  Fagin had been captured too, sentenced to death, and was in prison awaiting the fulfilment of his doom.  In his possession he had papers relating to Oliver’s parentage, and the boy went with Mr. Brownlow to the prison to try to recover them.  With Mr. Brownlow, Fagin was obstinately silent, but to Oliver he whispered where they could be found, and then begged and prayed the boy to help him escape justice, and sent up cry after cry that rang in Oliver’s ears for months afterwards.

But youth and sorrow are seldom companions for long, and our last glimpse of Oliver is of a boy as thoroughly happy as one often is.  He is now the adopted son of the good Mr. Brownlow.  Removing with him and Mrs. Bedwin to within a mile of the Maylies’ home, Mr. Brownlow gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver’s warm and earnest heart, and as the happy days go swiftly by, the past becomes the shadow of a dream.

Several times a year Mr. Grimwig visits in the neighbourhood, and it is a favourite joke for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which they sat with the watch between them awaiting his return.  But Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and in proof thereof remarks that Oliver did not come back after all,—­which always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour.

TOMMY TRADDLES

[Illustration:  TOMMY TRADDLES.]

Poor Traddles!  In a tight sky-blue suit that made his arms and legs like German sausages, or roly-poly puddings, and with his hair standing upright, giving him the expression of a fretful porcupine, he was the merriest and most miserable of all the boys at Mr. Creakle’s school, called Salem House.  I never think of him without a strange disposition to laugh, and yet with tears in my eyes.