As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath.
“Now, my boy, which house is it?” inquired Mr. Losberne.
“That! That!” replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. “The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so.”
“Come, come!” said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. “You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well.”
“Oh! I hope so!” cried Oliver. “They were so good to me; so very, very good to me.”
The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.
Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. “To Let.”
“Knock at the next door,” cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver’s arm in his. “What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?”
The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward.
“Has his housekeeper gone, too?” inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment’s pause.