"I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man; "everybody that could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago, and I've run here all the way." "The prosecutor was reading, was he?" inquired Fang, after another pause. "Yes," replied the man, "the very book he has got in his hand." "Oh, that book, eh?" said Fang. "Is it paid for?" "No, it is not," replied the man, with a smile. "Dear me, I forgot all about it!" exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently. "A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!" said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. "I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances, and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!" "D--me!" cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, "d--me! I'll----" "Clear the office!" roared the magistrate. "Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!" The mandate was obeyed, and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand and the bamboo cane in the other, in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard, and it vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned and his temples bathed with water: his face a deadly white, and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame. "Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow bending over him. "Call a coach, somebody, pray, directly!" A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other. "May I accompany you?" said the book-stall keeper looking in. "Bless me, yes, my dear friend," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot you. Dear, dear! I've got this unhappy book still. Jump in. Poor fellow! there's no time to lose." The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and away they drove. ELEGIAC STANZAS. BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON. Why mourn we for her, who in Spring's tender bloom, And the sweet blush of womanhood, quitted life's sphere? Why weep we for her? Thro' the gates of the tomb She has pass'd to the regions undimm'd by a tear! To the spirits' far land in the mansions above, Unsullied, thus early her soul wing'd its flight; While she bask'd in the beams of affection and love, And knew not the clouds that oft shadow their light! Fate's hand pluck'd the bud ere it blossom'd to fame, No withering canker its leaflets had known; The ministering angels her fellowship claim, And rejoice o'er a spirit as pure as their own!