Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children were. “Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann with emotion, “they’re as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick.” “Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. “He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,” said Mr. Bumble angrily. “Where is he?” “I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann. “Here, you Dick!” After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle’s voice. “Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?” said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. “What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?” inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. “Nothing, sir,” replied the child faintly. “I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble’s humour. “You want for nothing, I’m sure.” “I should like—” faltered the child. “Hey-day!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to say that you _do_ want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—” “Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. “Like what, sir, eh?” “I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.” “Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. “What do you mean, sir?” “I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, “that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.”