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Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy-But stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few preliminary paces.

Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that everybody else has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don't know that Jo is short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for him. He don't find no fault with it. Spell it? No. He can't spell it. No father, no mother, no friends. Never been to school. What's home? Knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. Don' recollect who told him about the broom, or about the lie, but knows both. Can't exactly say what will be done to him after he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something very bad to punish him, and serve him right-and so he'll tell the truth.

That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night, when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and, having questioned him and found he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither have I. Not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging. That the man had often spoken to him since; and asked him whether he slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he ever wished to die, and similar strange questions. That when the man had no money, he would say in passing, "I am as poor as you to-day, Jo"; but that when he had any, he would always (as the boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some.

"He wos wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeve. "Wen I see him a-layin' so stritched out just now, I wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to me, he wos !"

With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court, to the outside of the iron gate of the churchyard. It holds the gate with its hands, and looks in between the bars; stands looking in for a little while.

It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step, and makes the archway clean. It does so very busily and trimly; looks in again, a little while; and so departs, muttering, "he wos very good to me, he wos!"

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"You hear what she says. But get up, get up!"

Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after

the manner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the boarding, resting one of his high shoulders against it, and covertly rubbing his right hand over his left, and his left foot over his right.

"You hear what she says, and I know it's true. Have you been here ever since?"

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Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alone's till this blessed morning," replies Jo, hoarsely.

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'Why have you come here now?"

Jo looks all around the confined court, looks at his questioner no higher than the knees, and finally answers:

"I don't know how to do nothink, and I can't get nothink to do. I'm wery poor and ill, and I thought I'd come back here when there warn't nobody about, and lay down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and then go and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus willin fur to give me somethink, he was, though Mrs. Snagsby she wus allus a chivying on me-like everybody everywheres."

"Where have you come from?"

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"Aye!" says Allan. Why, what have you been doing?"

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Nothink, sir.

Never done nothink to get myself into no trouble, 'cept in not moving on and the Inkwhich. But I'm I'm a-moving on to the berryin groundI'm up to."

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a-moving on now. that's the move as Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, come with me, and I will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in.

Jo takes his creeping way along after Allan Woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite side of the street. In this order the two came up out of Tom-all-Alone's into the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air.

A breakfast-stall at a street corner suggests the first thing to be done. What is a dainty repast to Jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee, and to gnaw the bread-and-butter, looking anxiously about him in all directions. as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.

But he is so sick and miserable, that even hunger has abandoned him. "I thought I was a-most a starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting down his food; " but I don't no nothink-not even that. I don't care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." And Jo stands shivering, and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse, and on his chest. "Draw breath, Jo!" "It draws," says Jo, "as heavy

as a cart." He might add, " and rattles like it ;" but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."

For the cart, so hard to draw, is near its journey's end, and drags over stony ground. Not many times can the sun rise,

and behold it still upon its weary road.

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Jo is in a sleep, or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a while, he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards him, and touches his chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little

more.

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Ain't

'Well, Jo! what is the matter? Don't be frightened." "I thought," says Jo, who was started, and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" "Nobody."

"And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. "No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm

Am I, sir?" wery thankful."

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low distinct voice :

"Jo! Did you ever know a prayer?"

"Never knowd nothink, sir."

"Not so much as one short prayer?"

"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr. Sangsby's, and I heerd him; but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin' to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times, there was other genlmen come down Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'ther wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'thers, and not a-talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it was all about."

It takes him a long time to say this: and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed.

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Stay, Jo.

What now?"

"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he returns with a wild look.

"Lie down, and tell me, what berryin ground, Jo!"

"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed, he was. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him.

I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, I am as poor as you to-day, Jo, he says. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him."

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"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I was to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?"

"I will, indeed."

"Thank'ee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. An there's a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom.—It's turn'd wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin?"

"It's coming fast, Jo."

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near it's end.

"Jo, my poor fellow!"

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin-a-gropinlet me catch hold of your hand."

"Jo, can you say what I say?"

"I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." "OUR FATHER."

"Our Father!" yes, that's wery good, sir. "WHICH ART IN HEAVEN."

"Art in Heaven-is the light a-comin, sir?" "It is close at hand.

"Hallowed be-Thy-"

HALLOWED BE THY NAME."

Dead!

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead, your majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.-Dickens.

THE BARGAIN.

ANTONIO. BASSANIO.

Shy. Three thousand ducats,—well.

Bass. Aye, sir, for three months.

Shy. For three months,-well.

SHYLOCK.

Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

Shy. Antonio shall become bound,—well.

Bass. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer?

Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound.

Bass. Your answer to that.

Shy. Antonio is a good man.

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary.

Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no;—my meaning, in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me, that he is sufficient: yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England,and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats, waterrats, water-thieves, and land-thieves-I mean, pirates; and then, there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks.-The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient:-three thousand ducats:I think, I may take his bond.

Bass. Be assured you may.

Shy. I will be assured, I may; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?

Bass. If it please you to dine with us.

Shy. Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto?-Who is he who comes here?

Enter ANTONIO.

Bass. This is Signior Antonio.

Shy. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him, for he is a Christian :

But more, for that, in low simplicity,

He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,

Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest: Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him!

Bass. Shylock, do you hear?

Shy. I am debating of my present store;

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