workers going
to various occupations; in the opening of early shops; in the traffic
at markets; in the stir of the riverside. There was coming day in the
flaring lights, with a feebler colour in them than they would have had
at another time; coming day in the increased sharpness of the air, and
the ghastly dying of the night.

They went back again to the gate, intending to wait there now until it
should be opened; but the air was so raw and cold that Little Dorrit,
leading Maggy about in her sleep, kept in motion. Going round by the
Church, she saw lights there, and the door open; and went up the steps
and looked in.

'Who's that?' cried a stout old man, who was putting on a nightcap as if
he were going to bed in a vault.

'It's no one particular, sir,' said Little Dorrit.

'Stop!' cried the man. 'Let's have a look at you!'

This caused her to turn back again in the act of going out, and to
present herself and her charge before him.

'I thought so!' said he. 'I know YOU.'

'We have often seen each other,' said Little Dorrit, recognising the
sexton, or the beadle, or the verger, or whatever he was, 'when I have
been at church here.'

'More than that, we've got your birth in our Register, you know; you're
one of our curiosities.'

'Indeed!' said Little Dorrit.

'To be sure. As the child of the--by-the-bye, how did you get out so
early?'

'We were shut out last night, and are waiting to get in.'

'You don't mean it? And there's another hour good yet! Come into the
vestry. You'll find a fire in the vestry, on account of the painters.
I'm waiting for the painters, or I shouldn't be here, you may depend
upon it. One of our curiosities mustn't be cold when we have it in our
power to warm her up comfortable. Come along.'

He was a very good old fellow, in his familiar way; and having stirred
the vestry fire, he looked round the shelves of registers for a
particular volume. 'Here you are, you see,' he said, taking it down and
turning the leaves. 'Here you'll find yourself, as large as life. Amy,
daughter of William and Fanny Dorrit. Born, Marshalsea Prison, Parish of
St George. And we tell people that you have lived there, without so much
as a day's or a night's absence, ever since. Is it true?'

'Quite true, till last night.' 'Lord!' But his surveying her with an
admiring gaze suggested Something else to him, to wit: 'I am sorry to
see, though, that you are faint and tired. Stay a bit. I'll get some
cushions