“This is the house,” continued Giles, descending the few steps, and tapping at the door; “I have been here before. They know me.”
The door was opened by Hetty, and for the first time since entering those regions of poverty and crime, little Di felt a slight rise in her spirits, for through Hetty’s face shone the bright spirit within; albeit the shining was through some dirt and dishevelment, good principle not being able altogether to overcome the depressing influences of extreme poverty and suffering.
“Is your mother at home, Hetty!”
“Oh! yes, sir. Mother, here’s Mr Scott. Come in, sir. We are so glad to see you, and—”
She stopped, and gazed inquiringly at the visitors who followed.
“I’ve brought some friends of Bobby to inquire for him. Sir Richard Brandon—Mrs Frog.”
Number 666 stood aside, and, with something like a smile on his face, ceremoniously presented Wealth to Poverty.
Wealth made a slightly confused bow to Poverty, and Poverty, looking askance at Wealth, dropt a mild courtesy.
“Vell now, I’m a Dutchman if it ain’t the hangel!” exclaimed a voice in the corner of the small room, before either Wealth or Poverty could utter a word.
“Oh! it’s my boy,” exclaimed Di with delight, forgetting or ignoring the poverty, dirt, and extremely bad air, as she ran forward and took hold of Bobby’s hand.