the first time she could not restrain her tears from falling； and the
little thin hands he had watched when they were so busy； trembled as
they clasped each other。
'It would be a new distress to him even to know that I earn a little
money； and that Fanny earns a little money。 He is so anxious about us；
you see； feeling helplessly shut up there。 Such a good； good father！'
He let the little burst of feeling go by before he spoke。 It was soon
gone。 She was not accustomed to think of herself； or to trouble any one
with her emotions。 He had but glanced away at the piles of city roofs
and chimneys among which the smoke was rolling heavily； and at the
wilderness of masts on the river； and the wilderness of steeples on
the shore； indistinctly mixed together in the stormy haze； when she
was again as quiet as if she had been plying her needle in his mother's
room。
'You would be glad to have your brother set at liberty？'
'Oh very； very glad； sir！'
'Well； we will hope for him at least。 You told me last night of a friend
you had？'
His name was Plornish； Little Dorrit said。
And where did Plornish live？ Plornish lived in Bleeding Heart Yard。 He
was 'only a plasterer；' Little Dorrit said； as a caution to him not to
form high social expectations of Plornish。 He lived at the last house in
Bleeding Heart Yard； and his name was over a little gateway。 Arthur took
down the address and gave her his。 He had now done all he sought to do
for the present； except that he wished to leave her with a reliance
upon him； and to have something like a promise from her that she would
cherish it。
'There is one friend！' he said； putting up his pocketbook。 'As I take
you back……you are going back？'
'Oh yes！ going straight home。'
'As I take you back；' the word home jarred upon him； 'let me ask you to
persuade yourself that you have another friend。 I make no professions；
and say no more。'
'You are truly kind to me； sir。 I am sure I need no more。'
They walked back through the miserable muddy streets； and among the
poor； mean shops； and were jostled by the crowds of dirty hucksters
usual to a poor neighbourhood。 There was nothing； by the short way； that
was pleasant to any of the five senses。 Yet it was not a mon passage
through mon rain； and mire； and noise； to Clennam； having this
little； slender； careful creature on his arm。 How young she seemed to
him； or how old he to her； or what a secret either to the other； in that
beginning of the destined interweaving of their stories； matters not
here。 He thought of her having been born and bred among these scenes；
and shrinking through them now； familiar yet misplaced； he thought
of her long acquaintance with the squalid needs of life； and of her
innocence； of her solicitude for others； and her few years； and her
childish aspect。
They were e into the High Street； where the prison stood； when a
voice cried； 'Little mother； little mother！' Little Dorrit stopping and
looking back； an excited figure of a strange kind bounced against them
（still crying 'little mother'）； fell down； and scattered the contents of
a large basket； filled with potatoes； in the mud。
'Oh； Maggy；' said Little Dorrit； 'what a clumsy child you are！'
Maggy was not hurt； but picked herself up immediately； and then began
to pick up the potatoes； in which both Little Dorrit and Arthur Clennam
helped。 Maggy picked up very few potatoes and a great quantity of mud；
but they were all recovered； and deposited in the basket。 Maggy then
smeared her muddy face with her shawl； and presenting it to Mr Clennam
as a type of purity； enabled him to see what she was like。
She was about eight…and…twenty； with large bones； large features； large
feet and hands； large eyes and no hair。 Her large eyes were limpid and
almost colourless； they seemed to be very little affected by light；
and to stand unnaturally still。 There was also that attentive listening
expression in her face； which is seen in the faces of the blind； but she
was not blind； having one tolerably serviceable eye。 Her face was not
exceedingly ugly； though it was only redeemed from being so by a smile；
a good…humoured smile； and pleasant in itself； but rendered pitiable
by being constantly there。 A great white cap； with a quantity of
opaque frilling that was always flapping about； apologised for Maggy's
baldness； and made it so very difficult for her old black bon to
retain its place upon her head； that it held on round her neck like a
gipsy's baby。 A mission of haberdashers could alone have reported
what the rest of her poor dress was made of； but it had a strong general
resemblance to seaweed； with here and there a gigantic tea…leaf。 Her
shawl looked particularly like a tea…leaf after long infusion。
Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one
saying； 'May I ask who this is？' Little Dorrit； whose hand this Maggy；
still calling her little mother； had begun to fondle； answered in words
（they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had
rolled）。
'This is Maggy； sir。'
'Maggy； sir；' echoed the personage presented。 'Little mother！'
'She is the grand…daughter……' said Little Dorrit。
'Grand…daughter；' echoed Maggy。
'Of my old nurse； who has been dead a long time。 Maggy； how old are
you？'
'Ten； mother；' said Maggy。
'You can't think how good she is； sir；' said Little Dorrit； with
infinite tenderness。
'Good SHE is；' echoed Maggy； transferring the pronoun in a most
expressive way from herself to her little mother。
'Or how clever；' said Little Dorrit。 'She goes on errands as well as
any one。' Maggy laughed。 'And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England。'
Maggy laughed。 'She earns her own living entirely。 Entirely； sir！' said
Little Dorrit； in a lower and triumphant tone。
'Really does！'
'What is her history？' asked Clennam。
'Think of that； Maggy？' said Little Dorrit； taking her two large hands
and clapping them together。 'A gentleman from thousands of miles away；
wanting to know your history！'
'My history？' cried Maggy。 'Little mother。'
'She means me；' said Little Dorrit； rather confused； 'she is very much
attached to me。 Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should
have been； was she； Maggy？' Maggy shook her head； made a drinking vessel
of her clenched left hand； drank out of it； and said； 'Gin。' Then beat
an imaginary child； and said； 'Broom…handles and pokers。'
'When Maggy was ten years old；' said Little Dorrit； watching her face
while she spoke； 'she had a bad fever； sir； and she has never grown any
older ever since。'
'Ten years old；' said Maggy； nodding her head。 'But what a nice
hospital！ So fortable； wasn't it？ Oh so nice it was。 Such a Ev'nly
place！'
'She had never been at peace before； sir；' said Little Dorrit； turning
towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low； 'and she always runs off
upon that。'
'Such beds there is there！' cried Maggy。 'Such lemonades！ Such oranges！
Such d'licious broth and wine！ Such Chicking！ Oh； AIN'T it a delightful
place to go and stop at！'
'So Maggy stopped there as long as she could；' said Little Dorrit；
in her former tone of telling a child's story； the t