he theatre in
which his niece became a dancer, and he accepted the task of serving as
her escort and guardian.

To get her brother--christened Edward, but called Tip--out of the prison
was a more difficult task. Every post she obtained for him he always
gave up, returning with the announcement that he was tired of it, and
had cut it.

One day he came back, and said he was in for good, that he had been
taken for forty pounds odd. For the first time in all those years, she
sank under her cares. It was so hard to make Tip understand that the
Father of the Marshalsea must not know the truth about his son.

For, the Father of the Marshalsea, as he grew more dependent on the
contributions of his changing family, made the greater stand by his
forlorn gentility. So the pretence had to be kept up that neither of his
daughters earned their bread.

The Child of the Marshalsea learned needlework of an insolvent milliner,
and went out daily to work for a Mrs. Clennam.

This was the life and this the history of the Child of the Marshalsea at
twenty-two. Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent
in all things else. This was the life, and this the history of Little
Dorrit, now going home upon a dull September evening, and observed at a
distance by Arthur Clennam. Arthur Clennam had returned to his mother's
house--a dark and gloomy place--from the Far East. He had noticed that
Little Dorrit appeared at eight, and left at eight. She let herself out
to do needlework, he was told. What became of her between the two eights
was a mystery.

It was not easy for Arthur Clennam to make out Little Dorrit's face; she
plied her needle in such retired corners. But it seemed to be a pale,
transparent face, quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature.
A delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy hands,
and a shabby dress--shabby but very neat--were Little Dorrit as she sat
at work.

Arthur Clennam watched Little Dorrit disappear within the outer gate of
the Marshalsea, and presently stopped an old man to ask what place it
was.

"This is the Marshalsea, sir."

"Can anyone go in here?"

"Anyone can go in," replied the old man, plainly implying, "but it is
not everyone who can go out."

"Pardon me once more. I am not impertinently curious. But are you
familiar with the place? Do you know the name of Dorrit here?"

"My name, sir," replied the old man, "is Dorrit."

Clennam explained that he