Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.

“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, “this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.” Oliver bowed again.

“Dear me!” said the undertaker’s wife, “he’s very small.”

“Why, he is rather small,” replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; “he is small. There’s no denying it. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry⁠—he’ll grow.”