had seen a young woman working at his
mother's, spoken of as Little Dorrit, and had noticed her come in here,
and that he was sincerely interested in her, and wanted to know
something about her.

"I know very little of the world, sir," replied the old man, "it would
not be worth while to mislead me. The young woman whom you saw go in is
my brother's child. You say you have seen her at your mother's, and have
felt an interest in her, and wish to know what she does here. Come and
see."

Arthur Clennam followed his guide to the room of the Father of the
Marshalsea.

"I found this gentleman," said the uncle--"Mr. Clennam, William, son of
Amy's friend--at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of paying
his respects. This is my brother William, sir."

"Mr. Clennam," said William Dorrit, "you are welcome, sir; pray sit
down. I have welcomed many visitors here."

The Father of the Marshalsea went on to mention that he had been
gratified by the testimonials of his visitors--the "very acceptable
testimonials."

When Clennam left he presented his testimonial, and the next morning
found him there again. He went out with Little Dorrit alone; asked her
if she had ever heard his mother's name before.

"No, sir."

"I am not asking from any reason that can cause you anxiety. You think
that at no time of your father's life was my name of Clennam ever
familiar to him?"

"No, sir. And, oh, I hope you will not misunderstand my father! Don't
judge him, sir, as you would judge others outside the gates. He has been
there so long."

They had walked some way before they returned. She was not working at
Mrs. Clennam's that day.

The courtyard received them at last, and there he said good-bye to
Little Dorrit. Little as she had always looked, she looked less than
ever when he saw her going into the Marshalsea Lodge passage.

Aware that his mother might have once averted the ruin of the Dorrit
family, Clennam returned more than once to the Marshalsea. No word of
love crossed his lips; he told Little Dorrit to think of him as an old
man, old enough to be her father, and he besought her only to let him
know if at any time he could do her service. "I press for no confidence
now. I only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me," he said.

"Can I do less than that when you are so good?"

"Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness or
anxiety concealed from me?"

"Almost none."

But if Arthur Clennam kep