CHAPTER I

Oliver Twist is Born

Oliver Twist was born in a workhouse, and for a long time after his birth there was considerable doubt whether the child would live. He lay breathless for some time, rather unequally balanced between this world and the next. After a few struggles, however, he breathed, sneezed and uttered a loud cry.

The pale face of a young woman lying on the bed was raised weakly from the pillow and in a faint voice she said, "Let me see the child and die."

"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet," said the doctor, as he rose from where he was sitting near the fire and advanced towards the bed.

"God bless her, no!" added the poor old pauper who was acting as nurse.

The doctor placed the child in its mother's arms; she pressed her cold white lips on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly around, fell back—and died.

"It's all over," said the doctor at last.

"Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the old nurse.

"She was a good-looking girl, too," added the doctor; "where did she come from?"

"She was brought here last night," replied the old woman. "She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were torn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going, nobody knows."

"The old story," said the doctor, shaking his head, as he leaned over the body, and raised the left hand; "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good night!"