the counter in which his mattress was thrust, looked like a grave. His
food was broken bits left from the meals of others, and his constant
companion was an older boy, Noah Claypole, who, although a charity boy
himself, was not a workhouse orphan, and therefore considered himself in a
position above Oliver. He made Oliver's days hideous with his abuse, which
the younger boy bore as quietly as he could, until the day when Noah made
a sneering remark about Oliver's dead mother. That was too much. Crimson
with fury, Oliver started up, seized Noah by the throat, shook him till
his teeth chattered, and then with one heavy blow, felled him to the
ground.

This brought about a violent scene, for Noah accused Oliver of attempting
to murder him, and Mrs. Sowerberry, the maid, and the beadle,--who had
been hastily summoned,--agreed that Oliver was a hardened wretch, only fit
for confinement, and he was accordingly placed in the cellar, till the
undertaker came in, when he was dragged out again to have the story
retold. To do Mr. Sowerberry justice, he would have been kindly disposed
towards Oliver, but for the prejudice of his wife against the boy.
However, to satisfy her, he gave Oliver a sound beating, and shut him up
in the back kitchen until night, when, amidst the jeers and pointings of
Noah and Mrs. Sowerberry, he was ordered up-stairs to his dismal bed.

It was then, alone, in the silence of the gloomy workshop, that Oliver
gave way to his feelings, wept bitterly, and resolved no longer to bear
such treatment. Softly he undid the fastenings of the door, and looked
abroad. It was a cold night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther
from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and
the sombre shadows looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still.
He softly reclosed the door, and having availed himself of the expiring
light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of