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'We should all have been lost without Amy. She is a very good
girl, Amy. She does her duty.'

Arthur fancied that he heard in these praises a certain tone of
custom, which he had heard from the father last night with an
inward protest and feeling of antagonism. It was not that they
stinted her praises, or were insensible to what she did for them;
but that they were lazily habituated to her, as they were to all
the rest of their condition. He fancied that although they had
before them, every day, the means of comparison between her and one
another and themselves, they regarded her as being in her necessary
place; as holding a position towards them all which belonged to
her, like her name or her age. He fancied that they viewed her,
not as having risen away from the prison atmosphere, but as
appertaining to it; as being vaguely what they had a right to
expect, and nothing more.

Her uncle resumed his breakfast, and was munching toast sopped in
coffee, oblivious of his guest, when the third bell rang. That was
Amy, he said, and went down to let her in; leaving the visitor with
as vivid a picture on his mind of his begrimed hands, dirt-worn
face, and decayed figure, as if he were still drooping in his
chair.

She came up after him, in the usual plain dress, and with the usual
timid manner. Her lips were a little parted, as if her heart beat
faster than usual.

'Mr Clennam, Amy,' said her uncle, 'has been expecting you some
time.'

'I took the liberty of sending you a message.'

'I received the message, sir.'

'Are you going to my mother's this morning? I think not, for it is
past your usual hour.'
'Not to-day, sir. I am not wanted to-day.'

'Will you allow Me to walk a little way in whatever direction you
may be going? I can then speak to you as we walk, both without
detaining you here, and without intruding longer here myself.'

She looked embarrassed, but said, if he pleased. He made a
pretence of having mislaid his walking-stick, to give her time to
set the bedstead right, to answer her sister's impatient knock at
the wall, and to say a word softly to her uncle. Then he found it,
and they went down-stairs; she first, he following; the uncle
standing at the stair-head, and probably forgetting them before
they had reached the ground floor.

Mr Cripples's pupils, who were by this time coming to school,
desisted from their morning recreation of cuffing one another with
bags and books, to stare with all the eyes they had at a stranger
who had been to see Dirty Dick. They bore the trying spectacle in
silence, until the mysterious visitor was at a safe distance; when
they burst into pebbles and yells, and likewise into reviling
dances, and in all respects buried the pipe of peace with so many
savage ceremonies, that, if Mr Cripples had been the chief of the
Cripplewayboo tribe with his war-paint on, they could scarcely have
done greater justice to their education.

In the midst of this homage, Mr Arthur Clennam offered his arm to
Little Dorrit, and Little Dorrit took it.

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