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 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.