“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 kept silent, Little Dorrit was not without a lover.  Years ago young John Chivery, the sentimental son of the turnkey, had eyed her with admiring wonder.  There seemed to young John a fitness in the attachment.  She, the Child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper.  Every Sunday young John presented cigars to the Father of the Marshalsea—­who was glad to get them—­and one particular Sunday afternoon he mustered up courage to urge his suit.

Little Dorrit was out, walking on the Iron Bridge, when young John found her.

“Miss Amy,” he stammered, “I have had for a long time—­ages they seem to me—­a heart-cherished wish to say something to you.  May I say it?  May I, Miss Amy?  I but ask the question humbly—­may I say it?  I know very well your family is far above mine.  It were vain to conceal it.  I know very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me from a height.”

“If you please, John Chivery,” Little Dorrit answered, in a quiet way, “since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say any more—­if you please, no.”

“Never, Miss Amy?”

“No, if you please.  Never.”

“Oh, Lord!” gasped young John.

“When you think of us, John—­I mean, my brother and sister and me—­don’t think of us as being any different from the rest; for whatever we once were we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more.  And, good-bye, John.  And I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man.  I am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, John.”

“Good-bye, Miss Amy.  Good-bye!”

III.—­The Marshalsea Becomes an Orphan