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Withdrawing his other hand from Mr.
Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears
sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.

'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his
little charge a look of intense malignity. 'Well! Of _all_ the
ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver,
you are the--'

'No, no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the
well-known cane; 'no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed,
indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is
so--so--'

'So what?' inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

'So lonely, sir! So very lonely!' cried the child. 'Everybody
hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!' The child
beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face,
with tears of real agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some
astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a
husky manner; and after muttering something about 'that
troublesome cough,' bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy.
Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.

The undertaker, who had just putup the shutters of his shop, was
making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most
appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

'Aha!' said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing
in the middle of a word; 'is that you, Bumble?'

'No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,' replied the beadle. 'Here! I've
brought the boy.' Oliver made a bow.

'Oh! that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker: raising the
candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. 'Mrs.
Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my
dear?'

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and
presented the form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a
vixenish countenance.

'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy
from the workhouse that I told you of.' Oliver bowed again.

'Dear me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's very small.'

'Why, he _is_ rather small,' replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver
as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; 'he is small.
There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry--he'll
grow.'

'Ah! I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on our
victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not
I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth.
However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs,
little bag o' bones.' With this, the undertaker's wife opened a
side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a
stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the
coal-cellar, and denominated 'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternly
girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much
out of repair.

'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver
down, 'give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for

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