'Stop a bit,' said the turnkey. 'Supposing she was tender-hearted,
and they came over her. Where's your law for tying it up then?'

The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded, was unable to
produce his law for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey
thought about it all his life, and died intestate after all.

But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past
sixteen. The first half of that space of her life was only just
accomplished, when her pitiful and plaintive look saw her father a
widower. From that time the protection that her wondering eyes had
expressed towards him, became embodied in action, and the Child of
the Marshalsea took upon herself a new relation towards the Father.

At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him,
deserting her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly
watching him. But this made her so far necessary to him that he
became accustomed to her, and began to be sensible of missing her
when she was not there. Through this little gate, she passed out
of childhood into the care-laden world.

What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in
her sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of
the wretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her; lies
hidden with many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to
be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that
something, different and laborious, for the sake of the rest.
Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of the inspiration of a poet or a
priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and self-devotion to
the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life!