With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices
in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One
timid look around--one moment's pause of hesitation--he had
closed it behind him, and was in the open street.

He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.

He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling
up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath
across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out
again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.

Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted
beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse
from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage.
His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he
half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and
should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so
early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he
walked on.

He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates
stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the
garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he
stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of
one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him,
before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his
little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved,
and shut up together, many and many a time.