garden-tomb were mingled with them also, and both were audible

to Lucie, in a hushed murmurlike the breathing of a summer sea

asleep upon a sandy shoreas the little Lucie, comically studious

at the task of the morning, or dressing a doll at her mother’s

footstool, chattered in the tongues of the Two Cities that were

blended in her life.

The echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

Carton. Some half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his

privilege of coming in uninvited, and would sit among them

through the evening, as he had once done often. He never came

there heated with wine. And one other thing regarding him was

whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by all true

echoes for ages and ages.

No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with

a blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and

a mother, but her children had a strange sympathy with himan

instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities

are touched in such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so

here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out

her chubby arms, and he kept his place with her as she grew. The

little boy had spoken of him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss

him for me!”

Mr. Stryver shouldered his way th