“Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows any thing, and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven’s name put me in possession of it.” “A bad one—I’ll eat my head if he is not a bad one,” growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. “He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,” said Rose, colouring; “and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over.” “I’m only sixty-one,” said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face, “and, as the devil’s in it if this Oliver is not twelve at least, I don’t see the application of that remark.” “Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow; “he does not mean what he says.” “Yes, he does,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “No, he does not,” said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke. “He’ll eat his head, if he doesn’t,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,” said Mr. Brownlow. “And he’d uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,” responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor. Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom. “Now, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow, “to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to premise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken.” Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related in a few natural words all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow’s house, reserving Nancy’s information for that gentleman’s private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow for some months past had been the not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend. “Thank God!” said the old gentleman “this is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you,—but why not have brought him?” “He is waiting in a coach at the door,” replied Rose. “At this door!” cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coach-steps, and into the coach, without another word.