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For some time it seemed that no one would ever know, but at last, not so very long after this, a physician, Allan Woodcourt by name–who had known something of Jo and his story–was wandering at night in the miserable streets of Tom-all-Alone’s, impelled by curiosity to see its haunts by gas-light. After stopping to offer assistance to a woman sitting on a doorstep, who had evidently come a long distance, he walks away, and as he does so he sees a ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to the walls. It is the figure of a youth whose face is hollow, and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He is so intent on getting along unseen, that even the apparition of a stranger in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him, with a shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recall how or where, but there is some association in his mind with such a form.

He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alone’s in the morning light, thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, and, looking around, sees the boy scouring toward him at a great speed, followed by the woman.

“Stop him! stop him!” cries the woman; “stop him, sir!”

Allan, not knowing but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows in chase, and runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times; but each time the boy makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, and scours away again. At last the fugitive, hard pressed, takes to a narrow passage which has no thoroughfare. Here he is brought to bay, and tumbles down, lying down gasping at his pursuer until the woman comes up.

“Oh you Jo,” cries the woman, “what, I have found you at last!”

“Jo?” repeats Allan, looking at him with attention,–“Jo? Stay–to be sure, I recollect this lad, some time ago, being brought before the coroner!”

“Yes, I see you once afore at the Inkwich,” whimpered the boy. “What of that? Can’t you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An’t I unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me for to be? I’ve been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by another on you, till I’m worritted to skins and bones. The Inkwich warn’t my fault; I done nothink. He wos very good to me he wos; he wos the only one I knowed to speak to me as ever come across my crossing. It ain’t very likely I should want him to be Inkwich’d. I only wish I wos myself!”

He says it with such a pitiable air that Allan Woodcourt is softened toward him. He says to the woman, “What has he done?”–to which she only replies, shaking her head,—-

“Oh you Jo! you Jo! I have found you at last!”

“What has he done?” says Allan. “Has he robbed you?”

“No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-hearted by me, and that’s the wonder of it. But he was along with me, sir, down at St. Albans, ill, and a young lady–Lord bless her for a good friend to me!–took pity on him and took him home–took him home and made him comfortable; and like a thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been seen or heard from since, till I set eyes on him just now. And the young lady, that was such a pretty dear, caught his illness, lost her beautiful looks, and wouldn’t hardly be known for the same young lady now. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, do you know that this is all along of her goodness to you?” demands the woman.

The boy, stunned by what he hears, falls to smearing his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground, and to shaking from head to foot.