From early in the evening until midnight, little groups of two or three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired with anxious faces whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to others in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off one by one; and for an hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness. The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prison, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge.

"Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?" said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. "It's not a sight for children, sir."

"It is not indeed, my friend," rejoined Mr. Brownlow, "but my business with this man is intimately connected with him, and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villany, I think it better-even at the cost of some pain and fear-that he should see him

now.

These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat, and, glancing at him with some curiosity, opened another gate opposite to that at which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells.

"This," said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were making some preparations in profound silence-"This is the place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at."

He led them into a store-kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through which came the sound of men's voices, mingled with the noise of hammering and the throwing down of boards. They were putting up the scaffold.

From this place they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys, from the inner side, and having crossed an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps and came into a passage

The

with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves, as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visiters to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so. The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter; without seeming conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.

"Good boy, Charley-well done," he mumbled-"Oliver too-ha, ha, ha,-Oliver too-quite the gentleman now-quite the-take that boy away to bed."

The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.

"Take him away to bed," cried the Jew. "Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the-the-the somehow the cause of all this. It's worth the money to bring him up to it-Bolter's throat, Bill, never mind the girl. Bolter's throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off." Fagin," said the jailer. "That's me!" cried the Jew, falling instantly into precisely the same attitude of listening that he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my lord; a very old,

66

old, man."

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Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. "Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin, are you a man?”

"I shan't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all dead; what right have they to butcher me?"

As he spoke, he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and, shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, demanded to know what they wanted there.

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Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down. "Now, sir, tell him what you want-quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on."

"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands for better security, by a man called Monks."

"It's all a lie together," replied the "I haven't one-not one." "For the love of God," said Mr. Brown

Jew.

low solemnly, "do not say that now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead, that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?"

"Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. 66 Here, here. Let me whisper to

you.'

"I am not afraid," said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand.

"The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear, I want to talk to you."

Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do. Let me say one prayer; say only one upon your knees with me; and we will talk till morning." | "Outside-outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to sleep-they'll believe you. You can get me out if you take me

So.

Now then, now then." "Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy with a burst of tears.

"That's right, that's right," said the Jew; "that'll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now."

"Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey.

"No other question, replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recal him to a sense of his real position

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Nothing will do that, sir,” replied the man, shaking his head. You had better leave him."

The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.

"Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster.'

The man laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He writhed and struggled with the power of desperation, and sent up shriek upon shriek that penetrated even those massive walls, and rung in their ears until they reached the open yard.

It was some time before they left the prison, for Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more he had not the strength to walk.

Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assembled. The windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards,

to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling and joking. Every thing told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the very centre of all-the black stage, the cross beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH,
And Last.

THE fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed, and what little remains to their historian to relate, is told in few and simple words.

Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of the young clergyman's labours; on the same day they entered into possession of their new and happy home.

Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy during the tranquil remainder of her days the greatest felicity that age and worth can know-the contemplation of the happiness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a wellspent life have been unceasingly bestowed.

It appeared on a full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered in his hands or those of his mother,) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield to each little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his father's will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportu nity of retrieving his former vices, and pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to which his young charge most joyfully acceded.

Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a distant part of the New World, where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fell into his old courses, and after undergoing a long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison.

Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his own son, and removing with him and the old housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house where his dear friends resided, gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver's warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society whose