"Or how clever," said Little Dorrit. "She goes on errands as well as any one." Maggy laughed. "And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England." Maggy laughed. "She earns her own living entirely. Entirely, sir!" in a lower and triumphant tone. "Really does!"
"What is her history!" asked Clennam.
"Think of that, Maggy!" said Little Dorrit, taking Maggy's two large hands and clapping them together. "A gentleman from thousands of miles away, wanting to know your history!"
"My history?" cried Maggy. "Little mother."
"She means me," said Little Dorrit, rather confused; "she is very much attached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should have been; was she, Maggy? When Maggy was ten years old," she continued, "she had a bad fever, sir, and has never grown any older since."
"Ten years old," said Maggy, nodding her head. "But what a nice hospital! So comfortable, wasn't it? Oh, so nice it was. Such a Ev'nly place!"
"She had never been at peace before, sir," continued the young girl, turning towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, "and she always runs off upon that."
"Such beds there is there!" cried Maggy. "Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such d'licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, ain't it a delightful place to go and stop at!"
"So Maggy stopped there as long as she could," said Little Dorrit, in her former tone of telling a child's story, the tone designed for Maggy's ear; "and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she came out. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, however long she lived—"
"However long she lived," echoed Maggy.