ble's exquisite humour. "You want for nothing, I'm sure."
"I should like—" faltered the child.
"Hey-day!" interposed Mrs. Mann, "I suppose you're going to say that you do want for something, now? Why, you little wretch"
"Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!" said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. "Like what, sir; eh?"
"I should like," faltered the child, "if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up, and seal it, and keep it for me after I am laid in the ground."
"Why, what does the boy mean?" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression, accustomed as he was to such things. " What do you mean, sir?"
"I should like," said the child, "to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist, and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark
