temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.

‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. ‘Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!’

A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

‘May I accompany you?’ said the book-stall keeper, looking in.

‘Bless me, yes, my dear sir,’ said Mr. Brownlow quickly. ‘I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.’

The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.