'When Maggy was ten years old,' said Little Dorrit, watching her face

while she spoke, 'she had a bad fever, sir, and she has never grown any

older ever since.' 'Ten years old,' said Maggy, nodding her head. 'But what a nice

hospital! So comfortable, wasn't it? Oh so nice it was. Such a Ev'nly

place!' 'She had never been at peace before, sir,' said Little Dorrit, turning

towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, 'and she always runs off

upon that.' 'Such beds there is there!' cried Maggy. 'Such lemonades! Such oranges!

Such d'licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, AIN'T it a delightful

place to go and stop at!'

'So Maggy stopped there as long as she could,' said Little Dorrit,

in her former tone of telling a child's story; the tone designed for

Maggy's ear, 'and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she came

out. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, however

long she lived--' 'However long she lived,' echoed Maggy.

'And because she was very weak; indeed was so weak that when she began

to laugh she couldn't stop herself--which was a great pity--' (Maggy mighty grave of a sudden.)

'Her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and for some years

was very unkind to her indeed. At length, in course of time, Maggy began

to take pains to improve herself, and to be very attentive and very

industrious; and by degrees was allowed to come in and out as often as

she liked, and got enough to do to support herself, and does support

herself. And that,' said Little Dorrit, clapping the two great hands

together again, 'is Maggy's history, as Maggy knows!'

Ah! But Arthur would have known what was wanting to its completeness,

though he had never heard of the words Little mother; though he had

never seen the fondling of the small spare hand; though he had had no

sight for the tears now standing in the colourless eyes; though he had

had no hearing for the sob that checked the clumsy laugh. The dirty

gateway with the wind and rain whistling through it, and the basket of

muddy potatoes waiting to be spilt again or taken up, never seemed the

common hole it really was, when he looked back to it by these lights.

Never, never!

They were very near the end of their walk, and they now came out of the

gateway to finish it. Nothing would serve Maggy but that they must stop

at a grocer's window, short of their destination, for her to show her

learning. She could read after a sort; and picked out the fat figures in

the tickets of prices, for the most part correctly. She also stumbled,

with a large balance of success against her failures, through various

philanthropic recommendations to Try our Mixture, Try our Family Black,

Try our Orange-flavoured Pekoe, challenging competition at the head

of Flowery Teas; and various cautions to the public against spurious

establishments and adulterated articles. When he saw how pleasure

brought a rosy tint into Little Dorrit's face when Maggy made a hit,

he felt that he could have stood there making a library of the grocer's

window until the rain and wind were tired.




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