ouses; for, though the name wasn't on any of the
doors, they were sure Mr. Dombey still lived there. A rough dog lay on
one of the doorsteps, and a curtain fluttered at an open upper window.
Poor Di was growling in his sleep, and above there little Paul was
watching for the golden water on the wall, while faithful Florence sung
to him, and Susan Nipper put away derisive sniffs and winks in closets
and behind doors for the benefit of 'them Pipchinses.'

Coming to a poorer part of the city, they met Tiny Tim tapping along on
his little crutch, passed Toby Veck at a windy street-corner, and saw
all the little Tetterbys playing in the mud.

'Come down this street, and take a glimpse at St. Giles's, the worst
part of London,' said the Professor; and, following, Livy saw misery
enough in five minutes to make her heart ache for the day. A policeman
kept near them, saying it wasn't safe to go far there alone.

Vice, poverty, dirt, and suffering reigned supreme within a stone's
throw of one of the great thoroughfares, and made Alsatia dangerous
ground for respectable feet. Here, too, they saw familiar phantoms: poor
Jo, perpetually moving on; and little Oliver led by Nancy, with a shawl
over her head and a black eye; Bill Sykes, lounging in a doorway,
looking more ruffianly than ever; and the Artful Dodger, who kept his
eye on them as two hopeful 'plants' with profitable pockets ready for
him.

They soon had enough of this, and hurried on along High Holborn, till
they came to Kingsgate Street, so like the description that I am sure
Dickens must have been there and taken notes. They knew the house in a
moment: there were the two dingy windows over the bird-shop; the checked
curtains were drawn, but of course the bottomless bandboxes, the wooden
pippins, green umbrella, and portrait of Miss Harris were all behind
them. It seemed so real that they quite expected to see a red, snuffy
old face appear, and to hear a drowsy voice exclaim: 'Drat that bell:
I'm a coming. Don't tell me it's Mrs. Wilkins, without even a pincushion
prepared.'

While Livy stood gazing in silent satisfaction (merely regretting that
the name on the door was Pendergast, not Sweedle-pipes), the Professor
turned to a woman, and asked with admirable gravity, 'Can you tell me
where Mrs. Gamp lives?'

'What's her business?' demanded the matron, with interest.

'A nurse, ma'am.'

'Is she a little fat woman?'

'Fat, decidedly, and old,' returned the Profess