little lost brother."

Meanwhile Oliver lay for many days burning with fever and unconscious of
his surroundings, in the quietly comfortable home of Mr. Brownlow at
Pentonville. At length, weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke from what
seemed a dream, and found himself being nursed by Mrs. Bedwin, Mr.
Brownlow's motherly old house-keeper, and visited constantly by the
doctor. Gradually he grew stronger, and soon could sit up a little. Those
were happy, peaceful days of his recovery, the only happy ones he had ever
known. Everybody was so kind and gentle that it seemed like Heaven itself,
as he sat by the fireside in the house-keeper's room. On the wall hung a
portrait of a beautiful, mild, lady with sorrowful eyes, of which Oliver
was the living copy. Every feature was the same--to Mr. Brownlow's intense
astonishment, as he gazed from it to Oliver.

Later, Oliver heard the history of the portrait and his own connection
with it.

When he was strong enough to put his clothes on, Mr. Brownlow caused a
complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided
for him. Oliver gave his old clothes to one of the servants who had been
kind to him, and she sold them to a Jew who came to the house.

One evening Mr. Brownlow sent up word to have Oliver come down into his
study and see him for a little while,--so Mrs. Bedwin helped him to
prepare himself, and although there was not even time to crimp the little
frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and handsome,
that she surveyed him with great complacency.

Mr. Brownlow was reading, but when he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away,