Chapter 24: Fortune-Telling

Little Dorrit

by Charles Dickens

Little Dorrit received a call that same evening from Mr Plornish,
who, having intimated that he wished to speak to her privately, in a
series of coughs so very noticeable as to favour the idea that her
father, as regarded her seamstress occupation, was an illustration of
the axiom that there are no such stone-blind men as those who will
not see, obtained an audience with her on the common staircase
outside the door.

'There's been a lady at our place to-day, Miss Dorrit,' Plornish
growled, 'and another one along with her as is a old wixen if ever I
met with such. The way she snapped a person's head off, dear me!'

The mild Plornish was at first quite unable to get his mind away
from Mr F.'s Aunt. 'For,' said he, to excuse himself, 'she is, I do
assure you, the winegariest party.'

At length, by a great effort, he detached himself from the
subject sufficiently to observe:

'But she's neither here nor there just at present. The other
lady, she's Mr Casby's daughter; and if Mr Casby an't well off, none
better, it an't through any fault of Pancks. For, as to Pancks, he
does, he really does, he does indeed!'

Mr Plornish, after his usual manner, was a little obscure, but
conscientiously emphatic.

'And what she come to our place for,' he pursued, 'was to leave
word that if Miss Dorrit would step up to that card--which it's Mr
Casby's house that is, and Pancks he has a office at the back, where
he really does, beyond belief--she would be glad for to engage her.
She was a old and a dear friend, she said particular, of Mr Clennam,
and hoped for to prove herself a useful friend to his friend. Them
was her words. Wishing to know whether Miss Dorrit could come
to-morrow morning, I said I would see you, Miss, and inquire, and
look round there to-night, to say yes, or, if you was engaged
to-morrow, when.'

'I can go to-morrow, thank you,' said Little Dorrit. 'This is
very kind of you, but you are always kind.'

Mr Plornish, with a modest disavowal of his merits, opened the
room door for her readmission, and followed her in with such an
exceedingly bald pretence of not having been out at all, that her
father might have observed it without being very suspicious. In his
affable unconsciousness, however, he took no heed. Plornish, after a
little conversation, in which he blended his former duty as a
Collegian with his present privilege as a humble outside friend,
qualified again by his low estate as a plasterer, took his leave;
making the tour of the prison before he left, and looking on at a
game of skittles with the mixed feelings of an old inhabitant who had
his private reasons for believing that it might be his destiny to
come back again.

Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy in high
domestic trust, set off for the Patriarchal tent. She went by the
Iron Bridge, though it cost her a penny, and walked more slowly in
that part of her journey than in any other. At five minutes before
eight her hand was on the Patriarchal knocker, which was quite as
high as she could reach.

She gave Mrs Finching's card to the young woman who opened the
door, and the young woman told her that 'Miss Flora'--Flora having,
on her return to the parental roof, reinvested herself with the title
under which she had lived there--was not yet out of her bedroom, but
she was to please to walk up into Miss Flora's sitting-room. She
walked up into Miss Flora's sitting-room, as in duty bound, and there
found a breakfast-table comfortably laid for two, with a
supplementary tray upon it laid for one. The young woman,
disappearing for a few moments, returned to say that she was to
please to take a chair by the fire, and to take off her bonnet and
make herself at home. But Little Dorrit, being bashful, and not used
to make herself at home on such occasions, felt at a loss how to do
it; so she was still sitting near the door with her bonnet on, when
Flora came in in a hurry half an hour afterwards.

Flora was so sorry to have kept her waiting, and good gracious
why did she sit out there in the cold when she had expected to find
her by the fire reading the paper, and hadn't that heedless girl
given her the message then, and had she really been in her bonnet all
this time, and pray for goodness sake let Flora take it off! Flora
taking it off in the best-natured manner in the world, was so struck
with the face disclosed, that she said, 'Why, what a good little
thing you are, my dear!' and pressed her face between her hands like
the gentlest of women.

It was the word and the action of a moment. Little Dorrit had
hardly time to think how kind it was, when Flora dashed at the
breakfast-table full of business, and plunged over head and ears into
loquacity.

'Really so sorry that I should happen to be late on this morning
of all mornings because my intention and my wish was to be ready to
meet you when you came in and to say that any one that interested
Arthur Clennam half so much must interest me and that I gave you the
heartiest welcome and was so glad, instead of which they never called
me and there I still am snoring I dare say if the truth was known and
if you don't like either cold fowl or hot boiled ham which many
people don't I dare say besides Jews and theirs are scruples of
conscience which we must all respect though I must say I wish they
had them equally strong when they sell us false articles for real
that certainly ain't worth the money I shall be quite vexed,' said
Flora.

Little Dorrit thanked her, and said, shyly, bread-and-butter and
tea was all she usually--

'Oh nonsense my dear child I can never hear of that,' said
Flora, turning on the urn in the most reckless manner, and making
herself wink by splashing hot water into her eyes as she bent down to
look into the teapot. 'You are coming here on the footing of a
friend and companion you know if you will let me take that liberty
and I should be ashamed of myself indeed if you could come here upon
any other, besides which Arthur Clennam spoke in such terms--you are
tired my dear.'

'No, ma'am.'

'You turn so pale you have walked too far before breakfast and I
dare say live a great way off and ought to have had a ride,' said
Flora, 'dear dear is there anything that would do you good?'

'Indeed I am quite well, ma'am. I thank you again and again,
but I am quite well.'

'Then take your tea at once I beg,' said Flora, 'and this wing
of fowl and bit of ham, don't mind me or wait for me, because I
always carry in this tray myself to Mr F.'s Aunt who breakfasts in
bed and a charming old lady too and very clever, Portrait of Mr F.
behind the door and very like though too much forehead and as to a
pillar with a marble pavement and balustrades and a mountain, I never
saw him near it nor not likely in the wine trade, excellent man but
not at all in that way.'

Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, very imperfectly
following the references to that work of art.

'Mr F. was so devoted to me that he never could bear me out of
his sight,' said Flora, 'though of course I am unable to say how long
that might have lasted if he hadn't been cut short while I was a new
broom, worthy man but not poetical manly prose but not romance.'

Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait again. The artist had
given it a head that would have been, in an intellectual point of
view, top-heavy for Shakespeare. 'Romance, however,' Flora went on,
busily arranging Mr F.'s Aunt's toast, 'as I openly said to Mr F.
when he proposed to me and you will be surprised to hear that he
proposed seven times once in a hackney-coach once in a boat once in a
pew once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells and the rest on his knees,
Romance was fled with the early days of Arthur Clennam, our parents
tore us asunder we became marble and stern reality usurped the
throne, Mr F. said very much to his credit that he was perfectly
aware of it and even preferred that state of things accordingly the
word was spoken the fiat went forth and such is life you see my dear
and yet we do not break but bend, pray make a good breakfast while I
go in with the tray.'

She disappeared, leaving Little Dorrit to ponder over the
meaning of her scattered words. She soon came back again; and at
last began to take her own breakfast, talking all the while.

'You see, my dear,' said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two
of some brown liquid that smelt like brandy, and putting it into her
tea, 'I am obliged to be careful to follow the directions of my
medical man though the flavour is anything but agreeable being a poor
creature and it may be have never recovered the shock received in
youth from too much giving way to crying in the next room when
separated from Arthur, have you known him long?'

As soon as Little Dorrit comprehended that she had been asked
this question--for which time was necessary, the galloping pace of
her new patroness having left her far behind--she answered that she
had known Mr Clennam ever since his return.

'To be sure you couldn't have known him before unless you had
been in China or had corresponded neither of which is likely,'
returned Flora, 'for travelling-people usually get more or less
mahogany and you are not at all so and as to corresponding what
about? that's very true unless tea, so it was at his mother's was it
really that you knew him first, highly sensible and firm but
dreadfully severe--ought to be the mother of the man in the iron
mask."

'Mrs Clennam has been kind to me,' said Little Dorrit.

'Really? I am sure I am glad to hear it because as Arthur's
mother it's naturally pleasant to my feelings to have a better
opinion of her than I had before, though what she thinks of me when I
run on as I am certain to do and she sits glowering at me like Fate
in a go-cart--shocking comparison really--invalid and not her
fault--I never know or can imagine.'

'Shall I find my work anywhere, ma'am?' asked Little Dorrit,
looking timidly about; 'can I get it?'

'You industrious little fairy,' returned Flora, taking, in
another cup of tea, another of the doses prescribed by her medical
man, 'there's not the slightest hurry and it's better that we should
begin by being confidential about our mutual friend--too cold a word
for me at least I don't mean that, very proper expression mutual
friend--than become through mere formalities not you but me like the
Spartan boy with the fox biting him, which I hope you'll excuse my
bringing up for of all the tiresome boys that will go tumbling into
every sort of company that boy's the tiresomest.'

Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen.
'Hadn't I better work the while?' she asked. 'I can work and attend
too. I would rather, if I may.'

Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without
her work, that Flora answered, 'Well my dear whatever you like best,'
and produced a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly
put it by her side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded
the needle, and began to hem.

'What nimble fingers you have,' said Flora, 'but are you sure
you are well?'

'Oh yes, indeed!'

Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a
thorough good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing
her head, sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great
deal of use of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often,
glancing at the quiet face that bent over the work.

'You must know my dear,' said Flora, 'but that I have no doubt
you know already not only because I have already thrown it out in a
general way but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what's
his names upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F.
I had been engaged to Arthur Clennam--Mr Clennam in public where
reserve is necessary Arthur here--we were all in all to one another
it was the morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was
everything else of that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder
we turned to stone in which capacity Arthur went to China and I
became the statue bride of the late Mr F.'

Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself
immensely.

'To paint,' said she, 'the emotions of that morning when all was
marble within and Mr F.'s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it
stands to reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could
have broken down two streets from the house and Mr F.'s Aunt brought
home like the fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not
attempt, suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took
place in the dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of
pickled salmon was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon
a continental tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the
pier until they separated us though not for ever that was not yet to
be.'

The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the
greatest complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to
flesh and blood.

'I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good
spirits his appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the
wine weak but palatable and all was well, we returned to the
immediate neighbourhood of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London
Docks and settled down, ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid
in selling the feathers out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards
soared with Mr F. to another sphere.'

His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and
wiped her eyes.

'I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most
indulgent husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it
appeared or to hint at any little delicate thing to drink and it came
like magic in a pint bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I
returned to papa's roof and lived secluded if not happy during some
years until one day papa came smoothly blundering in and said that
Arthur Clennam awaited me below, I went below and found him ask me
not what I found him except that he was still unmarried still
unchanged!'

The dark mystery with which Flora now enshrouded herself might
have stopped other fingers than the nimble fingers that worked near
her.

They worked on without pause, and the busy head bent over them
watching the stitches.

'Ask me not,' said Flora, 'if I love him still or if he still
loves me or what the end is to be or when, we are surrounded by
watchful eyes and it may be that we are destined to pine asunder it
may be never more to be reunited not a word not a breath not a look
to betray us all must be secret as the tomb wonder not therefore that
even if I should seem comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur should
seem comparatively cold to me we have fatal reasons it is enough if
we understand them hush!'

All of which Flora said with so much headlong vehemence as if
she really believed it. There is not much doubt that when she worked
herself into full mermaid condition, she did actually believe
whatever she said in it.

'Hush!' repeated Flora, 'I have now told you all, confidence is
established between us hush, for Arthur's sake I will always be a
friend to you my dear girl and in Arthur's name you may always rely
upon me.'

The nimble fingers laid aside the work, and the little figure
rose and kissed her hand. 'You are very cold,' said Flora, changing
to her own natural kind-hearted manner, and gaining greatly by the
change. 'Don't work to-day. I am sure you are not well I am sure
you are not strong.'

'It is only that I feel a little overcome by your kindness, and
by Mr Clennam's kindness in confiding me to one he has known and
loved so long.'

'Well really my dear,' said Flora, who had a decided tendency to
be always honest when she gave herself time to think about it, 'it's
as well to leave that alone now, for I couldn't undertake to say
after all, but it doesn't signify lie down a little!'

'I have always been strong enough to do what I want to do, and I
shall be quite well directly,' returned Little Dorrit, with a faint
smile. 'You have overpowered me with gratitude, that's all. If I
keep near the window for a moment I shall be quite myself.'

Flora opened a window, sat her in a chair by it, and
considerately retired to her former place. It was a windy day, and
the air stirring on Little Dorrit's face soon brightened it. In a
very few minutes she returned to her basket of work, and her nimble
fingers were as nimble as ever.

Quietly pursuing her task, she asked Flora if Mr Clennam had
told her where she lived? When Flora replied in the negative, Little
Dorrit said that she understood why he had been so delicate, but that
she felt sure he would approve of her confiding her secret to Flora,
and that she would therefore do so now with Flora's permission.
Receiving an encouraging answer, she condensed the narrative of her
life into a few scanty words about herself and a glowing eulogy upon
her father; and Flora took it all in with a natural tenderness that
quite understood it, and in which there was no incoherence.

When dinner-time came, Flora drew the arm of her new charge
through hers, and led her down-stairs, and presented her to the
Patriarch and Mr Pancks, who were already in the dining-room waiting
to begin. (Mr F.'s Aunt was, for the time, laid up in ordinary in
her chamber.) By those gentlemen she was received according to their
characters; the Patriarch appearing to do her some inestimable
service in saying that he was glad to see her, glad to see her; and
Mr Pancks blowing off his favourite sound as a salute.

In that new presence she would have been bashful enough under
any circumstances, and particularly under Flora's insisting on her
drinking a glass of wine and eating of the best that was there; but
her constraint was greatly increased by Mr Pancks. The demeanour of
that gentleman at first suggested to her mind that he might be a
taker of likenesses, so intently did he look at her, and so
frequently did he glance at the little note-book by his side.
Observing that he made no sketch, however, and that he talked about
business only, she began to have suspicions that he represented some
creditor of her father's, the balance due to whom was noted in that
pocket volume. Regarded from this point of view Mr Pancks's puffings
expressed injury and impatience, and each of his louder snorts became
a demand for payment.

But here again she was undeceived by anomalous and incongruous
conduct on the part of Mr Pancks himself. She had left the table
half an hour, and was at work alone. Flora had 'gone to lie down' in
the next room, concurrently with which retirement a smell of
something to drink had broken out in the house. The Patriarch was
fast asleep, with his philanthropic mouth open under a yellow
pocket-handkerchief in the dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr
Pancks softly appeared before her, urbanely nodding.

'Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?' inquired Pancks in a low
voice.

'No, thank you, sir,' said Little Dorrit.

'Busy, I see,' observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by
inches. 'What are those now, Miss Dorrit?'

'Handkerchiefs.'

'Are they, though!' said Pancks. 'I shouldn't have thought it.'
Not in the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit.
'Perhaps you wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-
teller.'

Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.

'I belong body and soul to my proprietor,' said Pancks; 'you saw
my proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the
other way, sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.'

Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without
alarm.

'I wish you'd show me the palm of your hand,' said Pancks. 'I
should like to have a look at it. Don't let me be troublesome.' He
was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she
laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand
with her thimble on it.

'Years of toil, eh?' said Pancks, softly, touching it with his
blunt forefinger. 'But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!'
looking into the lines. 'What's this with bars? It's a College!
And what's this with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it's a
father! And what's this with a clarionet? It's an uncle! And
what's this in dancing-shoes? It's a sister! And what's this
straggling about in an idle sort of a way? It's a brother! And
what's this thinking for 'em all? Why, this is you, Miss Dorrit!'
Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she
thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and
gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were
on her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or
correcting the impression was gone.

'Now, the deuce is in it,' muttered Pancks, tracing out a line
in her hand with his clumsy finger, 'if this isn't me in the corner
here! What do I want here? What's behind me?'

He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the
wrist, and affected to look at the back of the hand for what was
behind him.

'Is it any harm?' asked Little Dorrit, smiling.

'Deuce a bit!' said Pancks. 'What do you think it's worth?'

'I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.'

'True,' said Pancks. 'What's it worth? You shall live to see,
Miss Dorrit.'

Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers
through his prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most
portentous manner; and repeated slowly, 'Remember what I say, Miss
Dorrit. You shall live to see.'

She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it
were only by his knowing so much about her.

'Ah! That's it!' said Pancks, pointing at her. 'Miss Dorrit,
not that, ever!'

More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she
looked to him for an explanation of his last words.

'Not that,' said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an
imitation of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be
unintentionally grotesque. 'Don't do that. Never on seeing me, no
matter when, no matter where. I am nobody. Don't take on to mind
me. Don't mention me. Take no notice. Will you agree, Miss
Dorrit?'

'I hardly know what to say,' returned Little Dorrit, quite
astounded. 'Why?'

'Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven't
told you so much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you
what's behind me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live
to see. Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?'

'Agreed that I--am--to--'

'To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first.
Not to mind me when I come and go. It's very easy. I am no loss, I
am not handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors
grubber. You need do no more than think, "Ah! Pancks the gipsy at
his fortune-telling--he'll tell the rest of my fortune one day--I
shall live to know it." Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?'

'Ye-es,' faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, 'I
suppose so, while you do no harm.'

'Good!' Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room,
and stooped forward. 'Honest creature, woman of capital points, but
heedless and a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.' With that he rubbed his
hands as if the interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted
away to the door, and urbanely nodded himself out again.

If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious
conduct on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself
involved in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished
by ensuing circumstances. Besides that Mr Pancks took every
opportunity afforded him in Mr Casby's house of significantly
glancing at her and snorting at her--which was not much, after what
he had done already--he began to pervade her daily life. She saw him
in the street, constantly. When she went to Mr Casby's, he was
always there. When she went to Mrs Clennam's, he came there on any
pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week had not gone by,
when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one night,
conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one of his
familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at
his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among
the visitors at her father's Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with
a Collegiate friend about the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had
greatly distinguished himself one evening at the social club that
held its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing a speech to the
members of the institution, singing a song, and treating the company
to five gallons of ale--report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The
effect on Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an
eye-witness of in his faithful visits, made an impression on Little
Dorrit only second to that produced by the phenomena themselves.
They seemed to gag and bind him. He could only stare, and sometimes
weakly mutter that it wouldn't be believed down Bleeding Heart Yard
that this was Pancks; but he never said a word more, or made a sign
more, even to Little Dorrit.

Mr Pancks crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted
with Tip in some unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the
College on that gentleman's arm. Throughout he never took any notice
of Little Dorrit, save once or twice when he happened to come close
to her and there was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in
passing, with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, 'Pancks
the gipsy--fortune-telling.'

Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this,
but keeping her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many
heavier loads, in her own breast. A change had stolen, and was
stealing yet, over the patient heart. Every day found her something
more retiring than the day before. To pass in and out of the prison
unnoticed, and elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were, for
herself, her chief desires.

To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate
youth and character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could
without desertion of any duty. There were afternoon times when she
was unemployed, when visitors dropped in to play a hand at cards with
her father, when she could be spared and was better away. Then she
would flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs that led to her
room, and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did those
spikes upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron
weave itself into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while
Little Dorrit sat there musing. New zig- zags sprung into the cruel
pattern sometimes, when she saw it through a burst of tears; but
beautified or hardened still, always over it and under it and through
it, she was fain to look in her solitude, seeing everything with that
ineffaceable brand.

A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little
Dorrit's room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had
little but cleanliness and air to set it off; for what embellishment
she had ever been able to buy, had gone to her father's room.
Howbeit, for this poor place she showed an increasing love; and to
sit in it alone became her favourite rest.

Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks
mysteries, when she was seated at her window, and heard Maggy's
well-known step coming up the stairs, she was very much disturbed by
the apprehension of being summoned away. As Maggy's step came higher
up and nearer, she trembled and faltered; and it was as much as she
could do to speak, when Maggy at length appeared.

'Please, Little Mother,' said Maggy, panting for breath, 'you
must come down and see him. He's here.'

'Who, Maggy?'

'Who, o' course Mr Clennam. He's in your father's room, and he
says to me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it's only
me.'

'I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to
lie down. See! I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my
grateful regard, that you left me so, or I would have come.'

'Well, it an't very polite though, Little Mother,' said the
staring Maggy, 'to turn your face away, neither!'

Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very
ingenious in inventing them. 'Putting both your hands afore your
face too!' she went on. 'If you can't bear the looks of a poor
thing, it would be better to tell her so at once, and not go and shut
her out like that, hurting her feelings and breaking her heart at ten
year old, poor thing!'

'It's to ease my head, Maggy.'

'Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me
cry too. Don't go and have all the crying to yourself,' expostulated
Maggy, 'that an't not being greedy.' And immediately began to
blubber.

It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back
with the excuse; but the promise of being told a story--of old her
great delight--on condition that she concentrated her faculties upon
the errand and left her little mistress to herself for an hour
longer, combined with a misgiving on Maggy's part that she had left
her good temper at the bottom of the staircase, prevailed. So away
she went, muttering her message all the way to keep it in her mind,
and, at the appointed time, came back.

'He was very sorry, I can tell you,' she announced, 'and wanted
to send a doctor. And he's coming again to-morrow he is and I don't
think he'll have a good sleep to-night along o' hearing about your
head, Little Mother. Oh my! Ain't you been a-crying!'

'I think I have, a little, Maggy.'

'A little! Oh!'

'But it's all over now--all over for good, Maggy. And my head
is much better and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very
glad I did not go down.'

Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having
smoothed her hair, and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water
(offices in which her awkward hands became skilful), hugged her
again, exulted in her brighter looks, and stationed her in her chair
by the window. Over against this chair, Maggy, with apoplectic
exertions that were not at all required, dragged the box which was
her seat on story-telling occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own
knees, and said, with a voracious appetite for stories, and with
widely-opened eyes:

'Now, Little Mother, let's have a good 'un!'

'What shall it be about, Maggy?'

'Oh, let's have a princess,' said Maggy, 'and let her be a
reg'lar one. Beyond all belief, you know!'

Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad
smile upon her face, which was flushed by the sunset, began:

'Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had
everything he could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and
silver, diamonds and rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces,
and he had--'

'Hospitals,' interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. 'Let
him have hospitals, because they're so comfortable. Hospitals with
lots of Chicking.'

'Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of
everything.'

'Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?' said Maggy.

'Plenty of everything.'

'Lor!' chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. 'Wasn't it
prime!'

'This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful
Princess that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all
her lessons before her masters taught them to her; and when she was
grown up, she was the wonder of the world. Now, near the Palace
where this Princess lived, there was a cottage in which there was a
poor little tiny woman, who lived all alone by herself.'

'An old woman,' said Maggy, with an unctuous smack of her
lips.

'No, not an old woman. Quite a young one.'

'I wonder she warn't afraid,' said Maggy. 'Go on, please.'

'The Princess passed the cottage nearly every day, and whenever
she went by in her beautiful carriage, she saw the poor tiny woman
spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny
woman looked at her. So, one day she stopped the coachman a little
way from the cottage, and got out and walked on and peeped in at the
door, and there, as usual, was the tiny woman spinning at her wheel,
and she looked at the Princess, and the Princess looked at her.'

'Like trying to stare one another out,' said Maggy. 'Please go
on, Little Mother.'

'The Princess was such a wonderful Princess that she had the
power of knowing secrets, and she said to the tiny woman, Why do you
keep it there? This showed her directly that the Princess knew why
she lived all alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she kneeled
down at the Princess's feet, and asked her never to betray her. So
the Princess said, I never will betray you. Let me see it. So the
tiny woman closed the shutter of the cottage window and fastened the
door, and trembling from head to foot for fear that any one should
suspect her, opened a very secret place and showed the Princess a
shadow.'

'Lor!' said Maggy. 'It was the shadow of Some one who had gone
by long before: of Some one who had gone on far away quite out of
reach, never, never to come back. It was bright to look at; and when
the tiny woman showed it to the Princess, she was proud of it with
all her heart, as a great, great treasure. When the Princess had
considered it a little while, she said to the tiny woman, And you
keep watch over this every day? And she cast down her eyes, and
whispered, Yes. Then the Princess said, Remind me why. To which the
other replied, that no one so good and kind had ever passed that way,
and that was why in the beginning. She said, too, that nobody missed
it, that nobody was the worse for it, that Some one had gone on, to
those who were expecting him--'

'Some one was a man then?' interposed Maggy.

Little Dorrit timidly said Yes, she believed so; and resumed:

'--Had gone on to those who were expecting him, and that this
remembrance was stolen or kept back from nobody. The Princess made
answer, Ah! But when the cottager died it would be discovered there.
The tiny woman told her No; when that time came, it would sink
quietly into her own grave, and would never be found.'

'Well, to be sure!' said Maggy. 'Go on, please.'

'The Princess was very much astonished to hear this, as you may
suppose, Maggy.' ('And well she might be,' said Maggy.)

'So she resolved to watch the tiny woman, and see what came of
it. Every day she drove in her beautiful carriage by the
cottage-door, and there she saw the tiny woman always alone by
herself spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and
the tiny woman looked at her. At last one day the wheel was still,
and the tiny woman was not to be seen. When the Princess made
inquiries why the wheel had stopped, and where the tiny woman was,
she was informed that the wheel had stopped because there was nobody
to turn it, the tiny woman being dead.'

('They ought to have took her to the Hospital,' said Maggy, and
then she'd have got over it.')

'The Princess, after crying a very little for the loss of the
tiny woman, dried her eyes and got out of her carriage at the place
where she had stopped it before, and went to the cottage and peeped
in at the door. There was nobody to look at her now, and nobody for
her to look at, so she went in at once to search for the treasured
shadow. But there was no sign of it to be found anywhere; and then
she knew that the tiny woman had told her the truth, and that it
would never give anybody any trouble, and that it had sunk quietly
into her own grave, and that she and it were at rest together.

'That's all, Maggy.'

The sunset flush was so bright on Little Dorrit's face when she
came thus to the end of her story, that she interposed her hand to
shade it.

'Had she got to be old?' Maggy asked.

'The tiny woman?' 'Ah!'

'I don't know,' said Little Dorrit. 'But it would have been
just the same if she had been ever so old.'

'Would it raly!' said Maggy. 'Well, I suppose it would though.'
And sat staring and ruminating.

She sat so long with her eyes wide open, that at length Little
Dorrit, to entice her from her box, rose and looked out of window.
As she glanced down into the yard, she saw Pancks come in and leer up
with the corner of his eye as he went by.

'Who's he, Little Mother?' said Maggy. She had joined her at
the window and was leaning on her shoulder. 'I see him come in and
out often.'

'I have heard him called a fortune-teller,' said Little Dorrit.
'But I doubt if he could tell many people even their past or present
fortunes.'

'Couldn't have told the Princess hers?' said Maggy.

Little Dorrit, looking musingly down into the dark valley of the
prison, shook her head.

'Nor the tiny woman hers?' said Maggy.

'No,' said Little Dorrit, with the sunset very bright upon her.
'But let us come away from the window.'