Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain. [Illustration: _Oliver recovering from the fever._] “Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin; I’m afraid I have caught cold.” “I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir.” “I don’t know, Bedwin,—I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday: but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?” “Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver, “and very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me.” “Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow stoutly. “Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin?—any slops, eh?” “He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying a strong emphasis on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there existed no affinity or connexion whatsoever. “Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good,—wouldn’t they, Tom White,—eh?” “My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid with a look of great astonishment. “Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White,—eh?” “No, sir, Twist,—Oliver Twist.” “Queer name,” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?” “I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement. This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments. “Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly that he could not withdraw his gaze. “I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly. “No, no,” replied the old gentleman.—“Gracious God, what’s this!—Bedwin, look, look there!”