"Where are they?" she asked. "Why, they're--over there, my dear," said the turnkey, waving his key vaguely, "just about there." "Does anybody open them and shut them? Are they locked?" "Well," said the turnkey, discomfited, "not in general." "Are they pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, because he wished it. "Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, and there's--" here he hesitated, not knowing the names of many flowers--"there's dandelions, and all manner of games." "Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?" "Prime," said the turnkey. "Was father ever there?" "Hem!" coughed the turnkey. "O yes, he was there, sometimes." "Is he sorry not to be there now?" "N--not particular," said the turnkey. "Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. "O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?" At this point, Bob gave in and changed the subject. But after this chat, the turnkey and little Amy would go out on his free Sunday afternoons to some meadows or green lanes, and she would pick grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe. When Amy was only eight years old, her mother died, and the poor father was more helpless and broken-down than ever, and as Fanny was a careless child, and Edward idle, the little one, who had the bravest and truest heart, was inspired by her love and unselfishness to be the little mother of the forlorn family, and struggled to get some little education for herself and her brother and sister. She went as often as she could to an evening school outside, and managed to get her brother and sister sent to a day-school at intervals, during three or four years. At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts. Once, amongst the debtors, a dancing-master came in, and as Fanny had a great desire to learn dancing, little Amy went timidly to the new prisoner, and said, "If you please, I was born here, sir." "Oh! You are the young lady, are you?" said he. "Yes, sir." "And what can I do for you?" "Nothing for me, sir, thank you; but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap." "My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master. Fanny was a very apt pupil, and the good-natured dancing-master went on giving her lessons even after his release, and Amy was so emboldened with the success of her attempt that, when a milliner came in, she went to her on her own behalf, and begged her to teach her. "I am afraid you are so weak, you see," the milliner objected. "I don't think I am weak, ma'am." "And you are so very, very little, you see," the milliner still objected. [Illustration: THE BLIND TOY MAKER.] [Illustration: LITTLE DORRIT AND MAGGIE. "SHE HAS NEVER GROWN OLDER SINCE."] "Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed," returned the child, and began to sob, so that the milliner was touched, and took her in hand and made her a clever workwoman.