“Yes, I see you once afore at the Inkwich,” whimpered the boy.  “What of that?  Can’t you never let such an unfortnet as me alone?  An’t I unfortnet enough for you yet?  How unfortnet do you want me for to be?  I’ve been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by another on you, till I’m worritted to skins and bones.  The Inkwich warn’t my fault; I done nothink.  He wos very good to me he wos; he wos the only one I knowed to speak to me as ever come across my crossing.  It ain’t very likely I should want him to be Inkwich’d.  I only wish I wos myself!”

He says it with such a pitiable air that Allan Woodcourt is softened toward him.  He says to the woman, “What has he done?”—­to which she only replies, shaking her head,——­

“Oh you Jo! you Jo!  I have found you at last!”

“What has he done?” says Allan.  “Has he robbed you?”

“No, sir, no.  Robbed me?  He did nothing but what was kind-hearted by me, and that’s the wonder of it.  But he was along with me, sir, down at St. Albans, ill, and a young lady—­Lord bless her for a good friend to me!—­took pity on him and took him home—­took him home and made him comfortable; and like a thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been seen or heard from since, till I set eyes on him just now.  And the young lady, that was such a pretty dear, caught his illness, lost her beautiful looks, and wouldn’t hardly be known for the same young lady now.  Do you know it?  You ungrateful wretch, do you know that this is all along of her goodness to you?” demands the woman.

The boy, stunned by what he hears, falls to smearing his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground, and to shaking from head to foot.

“You hear what she says!” Allan says to Joe.  “You hear what she says, and I know it’s true.  Have you been here ever since?”

“Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alone’s till this blessed morning,” replies Jo, hoarsely.

“Why have you come here now?”

Jo looks all around and finally answers, “I don’t know how to do nothink and I can’t get nothink to do.  I’m very poor and ill and I thought I’d come back here when there warn’t nobody about and lay down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and then go and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby.  He wos allus willing fur to give me something, he wos, though Mrs. Snagsby, she wos allus a-chivying me—­like everybody everywheres.”

“Now, tell me,” proceeds Allan, “tell me how it came about that you left that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate as to pity you and take you home?”

Jo suddenly came out of his resignation, and excitedly declares that he never known about the young lady; that he would sooner have hurt his own self, and that he’d sooner have had his unfortnet head chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her; and that she wos wery good to him she wos.

Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham.