s usual kindness; being so very kind as to
say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very
much.'

To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her
hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she
were in pain, murmured, 'O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how
can you, can you, do it!'

The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but not
knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief
and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he
remained stock still; then hurried after her.

'Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy,
if it comes to that, let ME go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have
to think that I have driven you away like this.'

His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to
a stop. 'Oh, I don't know what to do,' she cried, 'I don't know what to
do!'

To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command,
who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed,
there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself
with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the
pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be
misunderstood--supposed to mean something, or to have done something,
that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him
explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.

'Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were
vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever
I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false
representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well
that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn
me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be
admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they
are placed from my lowlier station--for, whether viewed as tobacco or
viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly--and ever wish them well and
happy.'

There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast
between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit,
perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him
to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to
divest himself of any