“Well,” said the doctor, laughing heartily, “that is no very difficult matter. But to return to this boy: the great point of our agreement is yet to come. He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although I have told that thick-headed constable-fellow down stairs that he mustn’t be moved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we may converse with him without danger. Now, I make this stipulation—that I shall examine him in your presence, and that if from what he says, we judge, and I can shew to the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he is a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall be left to his fate, without any further interference on my part, at all events.” “Oh no, aunt!” entreated Rose. “Oh yes, aunt!” said the doctor. “Is it a bargain?” “He cannot be hardened in vice,” said Rose; “it is impossible.” “Very good,” retorted the doctor; “then so much the more reason for acceding to my proposition.” Finally, the treaty was entered into, and the parties thereto sat down to wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake. The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial than Mr. Losberne had led them to expect, for hour after hour passed on, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before the kind-hearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he had at length roused sufficiently to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and weak from the loss of blood; but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to disclose something, that he deemed it better to give him the opportunity, than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next morning, which he should otherwise have done. The conference was a long one, for Oliver told them all his simple history, and was often compelled to stop by pain and want of strength. It was a solemn thing to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice of the sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had brought upon him. Oh! if, when we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences of human error, which, like dense and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pour their after-vengeance on our heads—if we heard but one instant, in imagination, the deep testimony of dead men’s voices, which no power can stifle, and no pride shut out, where would be the injury and injustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day’s life brings with it? Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by woman’s hands that night, and loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could have died without a murmur.