idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This
gave him a little comfort.

'Miss Amy,' he then stammered, 'I have had for a long time--ages they
seem to me--Revolving ages--a heart-cherished wish to say something to
you. May I say it?'

Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the
faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at
great speed half across the Bridge without replying!

'May I--Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I have
been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such
intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying
it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up
by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would
fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment's joy to! Not that
that's much to do, for I'd do it for twopence.'

The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance,
might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy made him
respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.

'If you please, John Chivery,' she returned, trembling, but in a quiet
way, 'since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say
any more--if you please, no.'

'Never, Miss Amy?'

'No, if you please. Never.'

'O Lord!' gasped Young John.

'But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want
to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to
express. When you think of us, John--I mean my brother, and sister,
and me--don't think of us as being any different from the rest; for,
whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago,
and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much
better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing
now.'

Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and
would be heartily glad to do anything she wished.

'As to me,' said Little Dorrit, 'think as little of me as you can; the
less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as
the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties
always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented, unprotected girl. I
particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I
am unprotected and solitary.'

He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much
want him to remember that?

'Becaus