er, and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there.
Through this little gate, she passed out of her childhood into the
care-laden world.

What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her
sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much or how little of the
wretched truth it pleased God to make plain to her, lies hidden with
many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something which
was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and
laborious, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of a
poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and
self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life?

The family stayed so long in the prison that the old man came to be
known as "The Father of the Marshalsea;" and little Amy, who had never
known any other home, as "The Child of the Marshalsea."

At thirteen she could read and keep accounts--that is, could put down in
words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted would
cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, by
snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got
her sister and brother sent to day-schools from time to time during
three or four years. There was no teaching for any of them at home; but
she knew well--no one better--that a man so broken as to be the Father
of the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children.

To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her own
contriving. Once among the crowd of prisoners there appeared a
dancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn the
dancing-master's art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen
years old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to the
dancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and offered her humble
petition.

"If you please, I was born here, sir."

"Oh! you are the young lady, are you?" said the dancing-master,
surveying the small figure and uplifted face.

"Yes, sir."

"And what can I do for you?" said the dancing-master.

"Nothing for me, sir, thank you," anxiously undrawing the strings of the
little bag; "but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to
teach my sister cheap--"

"My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master,
shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as ever
danced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was so
apt