lways thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, 'of his company.'

'There, Father!' cried Mrs Plornish. 'Ain't you a gay young man to
be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your
neck-handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you're a regular beau
yourself, Father, if ever there was one.'

With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a
loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and
her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old
father as he toddled away with his arm under Little Dorrit's.

They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron
Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the
water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he
would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him (his plan was
to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens,
and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter),
and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five
minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street,
they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port.

'Why, good gracious me, Amy!' cried that young lady starting. 'You never
mean it!'

'Mean what, Fanny dear?'

'Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,' returned the young
lady with burning indignation, 'but I don't think even I could have
believed this, of even you!'

'Fanny!' cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.

'Oh! Don't Fanny me, you mean little thing, don't! The idea of coming
along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!'
(firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun). 'O
Fanny!'

'I tell you not to Fanny me, for I'll not submit to it! I never knew
such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to
disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!'

'Does it disgrace anybody,' said Little Dorrit, very gently, 'to take
care of this poor old man?'

'Yes, miss,' returned her sister, 'and you ought to know it does.
And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The
principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of their
misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep
low company. But, however, if you have no sense of decency, I
have. You'll please to allow me to go on the other side of