the undertaker’s just as it used to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it — there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some slight incident connected — there was Gamfield’s cart, the very cart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door — there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the street — there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed again — there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew quite well — there was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream.