Putting the chair from which he had risen nearer to the grate, he made
her sit down in it; and hurriedly bringing wood and coal, heaped them
together and got a blaze.
'Your foot is like marble, my child;' he had happened to touch it, while
stooping on one knee at his work of kindling the fire; 'put it nearer
the warmth.' Little Dorrit thanked him hastily. It was quite warm, it
was very warm! It smote upon his heart to feel that she hid her thin,
worn shoe. Little Dorrit was not ashamed of her poor shoes. He knew her story, and
it was not that. Little Dorrit had a misgiving that he might blame her
father, if he saw them; that he might think, 'why did he dine to-day,
and leave this little creature to the mercy of the cold stones!' She had
no belief that it would have been a just reflection; she simply knew,
by experience, that such delusions did sometimes present themselves to
people. It was a part of her father's misfortunes that they did.
'Before I say anything else,' Little Dorrit began, sitting before
the pale fire, and raising her eyes again to the face which in its
harmonious look of interest, and pity, and protection, she felt to be a
mystery far above her in degree, and almost removed beyond her guessing
at; 'may I tell you something, sir?' 'Yes, my child.'
A slight shade of distress fell upon her, at his so
often calling her a child. She was surprised that he should see it, or
think of such a slight thing; but he said directly: 'I wanted a tender
word, and could think of no other. As you just now gave yourself the
name they give you at my mother's, and as that is the name by which I
always think of you, let me call you Little Dorrit.' 'Thank you, sir, I should like it better than any name.' 'Little Dorrit.' 'Little mother,' Maggy (who had been falling asleep) put in, as a
correction. 'It's all the same, Maggy,' returned Little Dorrit, 'all the same.'
'Is it all the same, mother?' 'Just the same.'
Maggy laughed, and immediately snored. In Little Dorrit's eyes and ears,
the uncouth figure and the uncouth sound were as pleasant as could be.
There was a glow of pride in her big child, overspreading her face, when
it again met the eyes of the grave brown gentleman. She wondered what he
was thinking of, as he looked at Maggy and her. She thought what a
good father he would be. How, with some such look, he would counsel and
cherish his daughter. 'What I was going to tell you, sir,' said Little Dorrit, 'is, that MY
brother is at large.' Arthur was rejoiced to hear it, and hoped he would do well. 'And what I was going to tell you, sir,' said Little Dorrit, trembling
in all her little figure and in her voice, 'is, that I am not to know
whose generosity released him--am never to ask, and am never to be told,
and am never to thank that gentleman with all MY grateful heart!'