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雾都孤儿|Oliver Twist

第7章|Chapter 7

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 查尔斯-狄更斯] 阅读：[41525]
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诺亚以最快速度在大街上狂奔，一口气跑到济贫院门口。他在那儿歇了一两分钟，以便酝酿精彩的抽噎，堆上一脸令人难忘的眼泪与恐惧，然后砰砰砰地冲着小门敲起来。开门的是一个上了年纪的贫民，即便是在他自己的黄金时代里，看到的也只是一张张惆怅哀怨的面孔，可骤然见到这么一副苦脸，也惊得连连后退。

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“唉，这孩子准出了什么事。”老人说道。

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“邦布尔先生！邦布尔先生！”诺亚喊了起来，一副失魂落魄的样子，声音又响亮又激动，不光是一下就钻进了邦布尔本人的耳朵里――真巧，他就在附近――还吓得他连三角帽也没顾得上戴劝学《荀子》篇名。认为人的知识、才能是“善假于，便冲进了院子――这可是一种稀罕而又值得注意的情形，证明哪怕是一名教区干事，在某种突如其来的强力刺激下，也会有一时半会显得张皇失措，并且忘记个人的尊严。

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“喔，先生，邦布尔先生。”诺亚说道，“奥立弗，先生――奥立弗他――”

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“什么？什么？”邦布尔先生迫不及待地插了进来，他那金属一般的的眼睛里闪过一道欢乐的光彩。“他该没有逃走吧？诺亚，他没溜掉吧，是不是？”

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“不，先生，不，溜是没溜，但他发疯了。”诺亚答道问题与主义五四时期中国思想史上的一场论争。李大钊，“先生，他想杀死我，接着又想杀夏洛蒂，再往下，就是老板娘了。喔！痛死我啦！这有多痛，您瞧瞧。”说到这里，诺亚把身子扭来绞去，做出各种各样的姿势，跟鳗鱼似的，好让部布尔先生明白，奥立弗退斯特的血腥暴行造成他严重的内伤，此刻正忍受着最最剧烈的疼痛。

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诺亚眼看邦布尔先生完全被自己报导的消息吓呆了，便大叫他被打得遍体鳞伤，声音比刚才大了十倍，更增强了原有的效果。他又看见一位身穿白背心的绅士正从院子里走过，料定自己轻而易举就可以把这位绅士吸引过来，并激起他的义愤。他的哀歌唱得越发凄惨了。

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这位绅士的注意力果真很快就被吸引住了，他刚走了三步，便怒气冲冲地转过身，问那个小杂种在嚎什么，邦布尔先生干吗不给他点颜色瞧瞧，那样一来倒是很可能使这一连串嚎哭弄假成真。

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“先生，这是一个可怜巴巴的免费学校的学生，”邦布尔先生回答，“他差一点惨遭杀害――先生，只差一点点――就被小退斯特杀死了。”

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“真有这事？”白背心绅士骤然停住脚步，大声说道，“我早就知道了。从一开始我就觉察到一种奇怪的预兆，那个厚颜无耻的小野人迟早会被绞死。”

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“先生，他还想杀掉家里的女佣呢。”邦布尔先生面如死灰地说。

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“再加上老板娘。”克雷波尔先生插了一句嘴。

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“诺亚，你好像说还有老板，是吗？”邦布尔先生添上了一句。

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“不，老板出门去了，要不然他没准已经把他给杀了，”诺亚回答，“他说过想这么干。”

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“啊？竟然说他想这么干，是不是，我的孩子？”白背心绅士问。

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“是的，先生。”诺亚答道，“先生，老板娘想问一声，邦布尔先生能不能匀出时间马上去一趟，抽他一顿――因为老板不在家。”

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“当然可以，我的孩子，当然可以，”白背心绅士亲切地微笑起来，在个子比自己还高出三英寸左右的诺亚头上拍了拍，“你是一个乖孩子――一个非常乖的孩子。这个便士是给你的。邦布尔，你这就带上你的藤杖到苏尔伯雷家去，你就看着办好了，邦布尔，别轻饶了他。”

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“哦，我不会轻饶了他，您放心。”干事一边回答，一边整理着缠在藤杖末梢上的蜡带，这根藤杖是教区专门用来执行鞭刑的。

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“也叫苏尔伯雷别放过他。不给他弄上点伤瘢和鞭痕制服不了他。”白背心绅士说。

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“我记住了，先生。”干事答道。这功夫，邦布尔先生已经戴上了三角帽，藤杖也整理好了，这两样东西的主人感到很满意，这才与诺亚克雷波尔一起，直奔苏尔伯雷的棺材铺而来。

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在这一边，局势仍不见好转。苏尔伯雷现在还没回来，奥立弗一个劲地踢着地窖的门，锐气丝毫未减。既然苏尔伯雷太太和夏洛蒂把凶残的奥立弗说得那么可怕，邦布尔先生认为还是先谈判一番，再开门进去为妙。他在外边照着门踢了一脚，以此作为开场白，然后把嘴凑到锁眼上，用深沉而又颇有分量的声音叫了一声：

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“奥立弗！”

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“开门，让我出去！”奥立弗在里边回答。

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“奥立弗，你听出声音来没有？”邦布尔先生说。

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“听出来了。”

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“先生，你就不怕吗？我讲话的时候，难道你连哆嗦都没打一个，先生？”邦布尔先生问。

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“不怕！”奥立弗毅然答道。

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答话与邦布尔先生所预期的以及他素来得到的相差太大了，他吓了一大跳。他从锁眼跟前退回去，挺了挺身子，惊愕地依次看了看站在旁边的三个人，没有吱声。

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“噢，邦布尔先生，您知道，他准是发疯了，”苏尔伯雷太太说道，“没有哪个孩子敢这样跟您说话，连一半也不敢。”

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“夫人，这不是发疯，”邦布尔沉思了半晌，答道，“是肉。”

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“什么？”苏尔伯雷太太大叫一声。

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“是肉，夫人，是肉的问题，”邦布尔一本正经地回答，“夫人，你们把他喂得太饱啦，在他身上培养了一种虚假的血气和灵魂，夫人，这和他的身份极不相称。理事们，苏尔伯雷太太，都是些注重实际的哲学家，他们会告诉你的。贫民们要血气或者是灵魂来干什么？让他们的肉体活着已经绰绰有余了。要是你们让他尽吃麦片粥的话，这种事情绝不会发生。”

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“天啦，天啦！”苏尔伯雷太太失声叫了起来，一双眼睛虔诚地仰望着厨房的天花板。“好心好意反得了这么个结果。”

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苏尔伯雷太太对奥立弗的好心就是把各种龌龊不堪的、别人都不吃的残羹剩饭慷慨地施舍给他。面对邦布尔先生的严词责难，她都抱着温柔敦厚、自我奉献的态度。其实平心而论，苏尔伯雷太太无论在想法上，说法上，还是在做法上都是无可非议的。

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“啊！”邦布尔先生待那位女士的目光重又落到地面上才说道，“依我所见，目前唯一办得到的事就是让他在地窖里关一两天，等他饿得有几分支不住了再放他出来，从今儿个起，直到他满师都只给他吃麦片粥。这孩子出身下贱，天生一副猴急相，苏尔伯雷太太。照看过他的护土、大夫告诉我，他母亲吃尽了苦头，费了好大力气，才跑到这儿来，换上随便哪一个正派女人，早就没命了。”

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邦布尔的议论进行到这儿，奥立弗听出，接下来的嘲讽又会冲着他母亲去了，便又开始狠命地踢门，把别的声音全压住了。就在这个节骨眼上，苏尔伯雷回来了。两位女士将奥立弗的罪行逐一道来，她俩专挑最能激起他上火的言词，大肆添油加醋。老板听罢立刻打开地窖，拎住奥立弗的衣领，一眨眼就把造反的学徒拖了出来。

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奥立弗的衣衫在先前挨打的时候就被撕破了，脸上青一块，紫一块，抓伤了好些地方，头发乱蓬蓬地搭在前额上。然而，满面通红的怒容仍没有消失，他一被拉出关押的地方便瞪大眼睛，无所畏惧地盯着诺亚，看上去丝毫没有泄气。

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“瞧你个兔崽子，你干的好事，是不是？”苏尔伯雷搡了他一下，劈头就是一记耳光。

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“他骂我妈妈。”奥立弗回答。

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“好啊，骂了又怎么样，你这个忘恩负义的小混蛋？”苏尔伯雷太太说道，“那是你妈活该，我还嫌没骂够哩。”

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“她不是那样的。”奥立弗说道。

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“她是。”苏尔伯雷太太宣称。

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“你撒谎！”奥立弗说。

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苏尔伯雷太太放声大哭，眼泪滂沱而下。

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面对太太洪流一般的泪水，苏尔伯雷先生不得不摊牌了。每一位有经验的读者保准都会认定，倘若他在从严惩罚奥立弗方面稍有迟疑，按照夫妻争端的先例，他就只能算是一头畜生，一个不通人情的丈夫，一个粗人；就男子汉的标准而言，只能算一件拙劣的赝品。各色各样合适的名目太多了，本章篇幅有限，无法―一细说。讲句公道话，他在自己的权力范围内――这个范围并不太大――对这孩子还算厚道，这也是由于利益所在，也可能是由于老婆不喜欢奥立弗。不管怎么说吧，这洪水般的眼泪使他无计可施，他当即拳脚齐下，把奥立弗痛打了一顿，连苏尔伯雷太太本人都觉得心满意足，邦布尔先生也完全用不着动用教区的藤杖了。当天余下的时间里，奥立弗被关进了厨房里间，只有一只卿筒和一片面包与他作伴。夜里，苏尔伯雷太太先在门外东拉西扯地说了半天，那番恭维话决不是为了纪念奥立弗的母亲，诺亚和夏洛蒂一左一右，在一旁冷言冷语，指指点点，接着苏尔伯雷太太往屋子里探头看了一眼，命令奥立弗回到楼上那张阴惨可怕的床铺里去。

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黑洞洞的棺材店堂一片凄凉死寂，奥立弗独自呆在这里，直到此刻，他才将这一天的遭遇在一个孩子心中可能激起的感情宣泻出来。他曾面带蔑视的表情听凭人们嘲弄，一声不吭地忍受鞭答毒打，因为他感觉得到，自己内心有一种正在增长的尊严，有了这种尊严，他才坚持到了最后，哪怕被他们活活架在火上烤，也不会叫一声。然而此时，四下里没有一个人看到或者听到，奥立弗跪倒在地，双手捂着脸，哭了起来――哭是上帝赋予我们的天性――但又有多少人会这般小小年纪就在上帝面前倾洒泪水！

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奥立弗纹丝不动，跪了很久很久。当他站起来的时候，蜡烛已经快要燃到下边的灯台了。他小心翼翼地看了看四周，又凝神听了一下，然后轻手轻脚地把门锁、门闩打开，向外边望去。

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这是一个寒冷阴沉的夜晚。在孩子眼里，连星星也似乎比过去看到的还要遥远。没有一丝儿风，昏暗的树影无声地投射在地面上，显得那样阴森死寂。他轻轻地又把门关上，借着即将熄灭的烛光，用一张手帕将自己仅有的几件衣裳捆好，随后就在一条板凳上坐下来，等着天亮。

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第一束曙光顽强地穿过窗板缝隙射了进来，奥立弗站起来，打开门，胆怯地回头看了一眼――迟疑了一下――他已经将身后的铺门关上了，走到大街上。

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他向左右看了看，拿不准该往哪儿逃。他想起往常出门曾看到运货的马车吃力地往那边小山开去，就选了这一条路。他踏上一条横穿原野的小路，知道再往前走就是公路了，便顺着小路快步走去。

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奥立弗走在这条小路上，脑海里清清楚楚地浮现出邦布尔先生头一次把他从寄养所领出来的情景，那时自己贴在邦布尔的身边，连走带跑地往济贫院赶。这条路一直通向寄养所那幢房子。想到这一层，他的心剧烈地跳起来，差一点想折回去。然而他已经走了很长一段路，这样做会耽误不少时间。再说，天又那样早，不用担心被人看见，因此他继续朝前走去。

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奥立弗到了寄养所。大清早的，看不出里边有人走动的迹象。奥立弗停下来，偷偷地往院子里望去，只见一个孩子正在给一处小苗圃拔草。奥立弗停下来的时候，那孩子抬起了苍白的面孔，奥立弗一眼就把自己先前的伙伴认出来了。能在走以前看到他，奥立弗感到很高兴，那孩子虽说比自己小一些，却是他的小朋友，常在一块儿玩。他们曾无数次一起挨打，一起受饿，一起被关禁闭。

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“嘘，狄克。”奥立弗说道。狄克跑到门边，从栏杆里伸出一只纤细的胳膊，跟奥立弗打了个招呼。“有人起来了吗？”

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“就我一个。”狄克答道。

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“狄克，你可不能说你见过我，”奥立弗说，“我是跑出来的。狄克，他们打我，欺负我。我要到很远很远的地方去碰碰运气，还不知道是哪儿呢。你脸色太苍白了。”

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“我听医生对他们说，我快死了，”狄克带着一丝淡淡的笑容回答，“真高兴能看到你，亲爱的，可是别停下来，别停下来。”

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“是的，是的，我这就和你说再会。狄克，我还要来看你，一定会的。你会变得非常快乐的。”

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“我也这么盼着呢，”那孩子答道，“是在我死了以后，不是在那以前。我知道大夫是对的，奥立弗，因为我梦见过好多回天堂和天使了，还梦见一些和气的面孔，都是我醒着的时候从来没有看见过的。亲我一下吧，”他爬上矮门，伸出小胳膊搂住奥立弗的脖子，“再见了，亲爱的。上帝保佑你。”

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这番祝福发自一个稚气未尽的孩子之口，但这是奥立弗生平第一次听到别人为他祈祷，他往后还将历尽磨劫熬煎，饱尝酸甜苦辣，但他没有一时一刻遗忘过这些话语。

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OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY

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Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.

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’Why, what’s the matter with the boy!’ said the old pauper.

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’Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!’ cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,--which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.

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’Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!’ said Noah: ’Oliver, sir,--Oliver has--’

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’What? What?’ interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. ’Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?’

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’No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,’ replied Noah. ’He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is!

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Such agony, please, sir!’ And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.

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When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.

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The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process?

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’It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble, ’who has been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir,--by young Twist.’

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’By Jove!’ exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. ’I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!’

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’He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,’ said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.

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’And his missis,’ interposed Mr. Claypole.

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’And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?’ added Mr. Bumble.

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’No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,’ replied Noah. ’He said he wanted to.’

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’Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?’ inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

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’Yes, sir,’ replied Noah. ’And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him--’cause master’s out.’

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’Certainly, my boy; certainly,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches higher than his own. ’You’re a good boy--a very good boy. Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.’

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’No, I will not, sir,’ replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.

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Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:

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’Oliver!’

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’Come; you let me out!’ replied Oliver, from the inside.

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’Do you know this here voice, Oliver?’ said Mr. Bumble.

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’Yes,’ replied Oliver.

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’Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak, sir?’ said Mr. Bumble.

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’No!’ replied Oliver, boldly.

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An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment.

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’Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.

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’No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.’

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’It’s not Madness, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. ’It’s Meat.’

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’What?’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.

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’Meat, ma’am, meat,’ replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. ’You’ve over-fed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma’am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we let ’em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma’am, this would never have happened.’

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’Dear, dear!’ ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: ’this comes of being liberal!’

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The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed.

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’Ah!’ said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; ’the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he’s a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before.’

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At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.

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Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.

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’Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?’ said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.

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’He called my mother names,’ replied Oliver.

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’Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?’ said Mrs. Sowerberry. ’She deserved what he said, and worse.’

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’She didn’t’ said Oliver.

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’She did,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.

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’It’s a lie!’ said Oliver.

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Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.

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This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went--it was not very extensive--kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.

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It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!

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For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.

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It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.

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With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around--one moment’s pause of hesitation--he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street.

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He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.

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He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.

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Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on.

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He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.

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’Hush, Dick!’ said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. ’Is any one up?’

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’Nobody but me,’ replied the child.

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’You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,’ said Oliver. ’I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don’t know where. How pale you are!’

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’I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,’ replied the child with a faint smile. ’I am very glad to see you, dear; but don’t stop, don’t stop!’

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’Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,’ replied Oliver. ’I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!’

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’I hope so,’ replied the child. ’After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,’ said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver’s neck. ’Good-b’ye, dear! God bless you!’

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The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it.

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