“Oh! I hope so!” cried Oliver. “They were so good to me; so very very good to me, sir.” The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house. The next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window—“To Let.” “Knock at the next door,” cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver’s arm in his. “What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?” The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backwards. “Has his housekeeper gone, too?” inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment’s pause. “Yes, sir;” replied the servant. “The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman, a friend of Mr. Brownlow’s, all went together.” “Then turn towards home again,” said Mr. Losberne to the driver, “and don’t stop to bait the horses till you get out of this confounded London!” “The book-stall keeper, sir?” said Oliver. “I know the way there. See him, pray sir! Do see him!” “My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,” said the doctor. “Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper’s we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!” And in obedience to the doctor’s first impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself many times during his illness with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him, and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting upon what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up and sustained him under many of his recent trials; and now the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber,—a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day,—was almost more than he could bear. The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of his benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey for some months. Sending the plate which had so excited the Jew’s cupidity to the banker’s, and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed for a cottage some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them.