young wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own

rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of

the forehead strongly marked.

“We are thoughtful tonight!” said Darnay, drawing his arm

about her.

“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the

inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather

thoughtful tonight, for we have something on our mind tonight.”

“What is it, my Lucie?”

“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you

not to ask it?”

“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”

What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from

the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!

“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration

and respect than you expressed for him tonight.”

“Indeed, my own? Why so?”

“That is what you are not to ask me! But I thinkI knowhe

does.”

“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my

Life?”

“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always,

and very lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to

believe that he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that

there are deep wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”

“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite

astounded,