to get him back as quickly as possible. To
accomplish his evil purpose, Nancy, a young woman who belonged to
Fagin's gang, and who had seen Oliver, was prevailed upon to undertake
the commission.

Now, the very evening before Oliver was to tell his story to Mr.
Brownlow, the boy, anxious to prove his honesty, had set out with some
books on an errand to the bookseller at Clerkenwell Green.

"You are to say," said Mr. Brownlow, "that you have brought these 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 shillings
change."

"I won't be ten minutes, sir," replied Oliver eagerly.

He was walking briskly along, 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!" He had hardly looked up when he was stopped by
having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.

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

The only reply to this was a great number of loud lamentations from the
young woman who had embraced him.

"I've found him! Oh, Oliver, Oliver! Oh, you naughty boy to make me
suffer such distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've
found him! Thank gracious goodness heavens, I've found him!"

The young woman burst out crying, and a couple of women standing by
asked what was the matter.

"Oh, ma'am," replied the young woman, "he ran away from his parents, and
went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters, and almost broke
his mother's heart."

"Young wretch!" said one woman.

"Go home, do, you little brute," said the other.

"I'm not," replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. I haven't
any sister or father or mother. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville."

"Oh, only hear him, how he braves it out," cried the young woman. "Make
him come home, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my
heart!"

"What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a
white dog at his heels. "Young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother,
you young dog!"

"I don't belong to them. I don't know them! Help, help!" cried Oliver,
struggling in the man's powerful grasp.

"Help!" repeated the man. "Yes, I'll help you, you young rascal! What
books are these? You've been a-stealin' 'em, have you? Give 'em here!"

With these words the man tore the volumes from h