When Mr Chivery, who was on duty, admitted them into the Lodge, he saw

something in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stood

looking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though he

perceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost a-piece. Two or

three Collegians whom they passed, looked after them too, and presently

joining Mr Chivery, formed a little group on the Lodge steps, in the

midst of which there spontaneously originated a whisper that the Father

was going to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, it was heard in

the remotest room in the College.

Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. He

was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap, in the sunlight

by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and

he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by her step upon

the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, by seeing

Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the same unwonted look

in both of them which had already caught attention in the yard below,

struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down his glasses and his

newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at them with his mouth

a little open and his lips trembling. When Arthur put out his hand,

he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then he turned to his

daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands upon his

shoulder, and looked attentively in her face.

'Father! I have been made so happy this morning!'

'You have been made so happy, my dear?'

'By Mr Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderful

intelligence about you! If he had not with his great kindness and

gentleness, prepared me for it, father--prepared me for it, father--I

think I could not have borne it.' Her agitation was exceedingly great, and the tears rolled down her face.

He put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam. 'Compose yourself, sir,' said Clennam, 'and take a little time to think.

To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We have

all heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end, sir. They

are rare, but not at an end.'

'Mr Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for--' He touched himself upon

the breast, instead of saying 'me.' 'No,' returned Clennam. 'What surprise,' he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart, and

there stopping in his speech, while with his right hand he put his

glasses exactly level on the table: 'what such surprise can be in store

for me?' 'Let me answer with another question. Tell me, Mr Dorrit, what surprise

would be the most unlooked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be

afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be.'




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