'Queer name!' said the old gentleman. 'What made you tell the
magistrate your name was White?'

'I never told him so, sir,' returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked
somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt
him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened
lineaments.

'Some mistake,' said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for
looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the
resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon
him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.

'I hope you are not angry with me, sir?' said Oliver, raising his
eyes beseechingly.

'No, no,' replied the old gentleman. 'Why! what's this? Bedwin,
look there!'

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's
head, and then to the boy's face. There was its living copy. The
eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The
expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the
minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not
being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted
away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an