dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the
lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of
the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty
beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from
earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle
glow upon the path to Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which
Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the
recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an
absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty
book.

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the
man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his
book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence
of the renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang
sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was
a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already
deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man,
with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the
back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much
flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather
more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action
against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy
damages.