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Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,-a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little Hock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, ‘'Let me see the child, and die.’'

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed'’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:

'‘Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.’'

'‘Lord bless her dear heart, no!'’ interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a comer with evident satisfaction.

‘'Lord bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on '“em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she’'ll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’'s a dear young lamb do.’'

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother'’s prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back-and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.

'‘It'’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!'’ said the surgeon at last.

How many children did Oliver’s mother have?

A) 2

B) 13

C) Both (a) and (b)

D) Neither (a) nor (b)