ton to see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned

the look, and evidently understood it.

“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of

them would only add to her trouble. Don’t speak of me to her. As I

said to you when I first came, I had better not see her. I can put

my hand out, to do any little helpful work for her that my hand can

find to do, without that. You are going to her, I hope? She must be

very desolate tonight.”

“I am going now, directly.”

“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and

reliance on you. How does she look?”

“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”

“Ah!”

It was a long, grieving sound, like a sighalmost like a sob. It

attracted Mr. Lorry’s eyes to Carton’s face, which was turned to

the fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said

which), passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a

hillside on a wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one

of the little flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the

white riding-coat and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the

fire touching their light surfaces made him look very pale, with his

long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His

indifference to fire was sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of

remonstrance from Mr. Lorry: his b