ment 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.

He was always being caned--I think he was caned every day in the half-year
I spent at Salem House, except one holiday Monday when he was only ruler'd
on both hands--and was always going to write to his uncle about it, and
never did. After laying his head on the desk for a little while, he would
cheer up somehow, begin to laugh again, and draw skeletons all over his
slate, before his eyes were dry. I used at first to wonder what comfort
Traddles found in drawing skeletons; and for some time looked upon him as
a sort of a hermit, who reminded himself by those symbols of mortality
that caning couldn't last for ever. But I believe he only did it because
they were easy, and didn't want any features.

He was very honourable