most unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter
than its shining surface was before), and resumed
his former attitude.

"So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is
the story of your regretted father. Now comes
the difference. If your father had not died
when he did——Don't be frightened! How you
start!"

She did, indeed, start. And she caught his
wrist with both her hands.

"Pray," said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone,
bringing his left hand from the back of the chair
to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
him in so violent a tremble: "pray control
your agitation—a matter of business. As I was
saying——"

Her look so discomposed him that he stopped,
wandered, and began anew:

"As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette
had not died; if he had suddenly and silently
disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if
it had not been difficult to guess to what dreadful
place, though no art could trace him; if he
had an enemy in some compatriot who could
exercise a privilege that I in my own time
have known the boldest people afraid to speak
of in a whisper, across the water, there; for
instance, the privilege of filling up blank forms
for the consignment of any one to the oblivion
of a prison for any length of time; if
his wife had implored the king, the queen,
the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
him, and all quite in vain;—then the history of
your father would have been the history of
this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of
Beauvais."

"I entreat you to tell me more, sir."

"I will. I am going to. You can bear it?"

"I can bear anything but the uncertainty you
leave me in at this moment."

"You speak collectedly, and you—are
collected. That's good!" (Though his manner
was less satisfied than his words.) "A matter
of business. Regard it as a matter of
business —business that must be done. Now,
if this Doctor's wife, though a lady of
great courage and spirit, had suffered so
intensely from this cause before her little child was
born——"

"The little child was a daughter, sir."

"A daughter. A—a—matter of business
—don't be distressed. Miss, if the poor lady
had suffered so intensely before her little child
was born, that she came to the determination of
sparing the poor child the inheritance of any part of
the agony she had known the pains of, by rearing
her in the belief that her father was dead———
No, don't kneel! In Heaven's name why should
you kneel to me!"

"For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate
sir, for the truth!"

"A—a matter of business. You confuse me,
and how can I transact business if I am
confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could
kindly mention now, for instance, what nine
times ninepence are, or how many shillings in
twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I
should be so much more at my ease about your
state of mind."

Without directly answering to this appeal, she
sat so still when he had very gently raised her,
and the hands that had not ceased to clasp his
wrists were so much more steady than they had
been, that she communicated some reassurance
to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.

"That's right, that's right. Courage! Business!
You have business before you; useful
business. Miss Manette, your mother took this
course with you. And when she died—I
believe broken-hearted—having never slackened
her unavailing search for your father, she left
you, at two years old, to grow to be blooming,
beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
upon you of living in uncertainty whether
your father soon wore his heart out in
prison, or wasted there through many lingering
years."

As he said the words, he looked down, with an
admiring pity, on the flowing golden hair; as if
he pictured to himself that it might have been
already tinged with grey.

"You know that your parents had no great
possession, and that what they had was secured
to your mother and to you. There has been no
new discovery, of money, or of any other
property; but——"

He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped.
The expression in the forehead, which had so
particularly attracted his notice, and which was
now immovable, had deepened into one of pain
and horror.

"But he has been—been found. He is alive.
Greatly changed, it is too probable; almost a
wreck, it is possible; though we will hope
the best. Still, alive. Your father has been
taken to the house of an old servant in Paris,
and we are going there: I, to identify him, if I
can: you, to restore him to life, love, duty, rest,
comfort."

A shiver ran through her frame, and from it
through his. She said, in a low, distinct, awe-
stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,

"I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his
Ghost—not him!"

Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held
his arm. "There, there, there! See now, see
now! The best and the worst are known to you
now. You are well on your way to the poor
wronged gentleman, and, with a fair sea voyage,
and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his
dear side."

She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a
whisper, "I have been free, I have been happy,
yet his Ghost has never haunted me!"

"Only one thing more," said Mr. Lorry, laying
stress upon it as a wholesome means of
enforcing her attention: "he has been found
under another name; his own, long forgotten or
long concealed. It would be worse than useless
now to inquire which; worse than useless to
seek to know whether he has been for years
overlooked, or always designedly held prisoner.
It would be worse than useless now to make any
inquiries, because it would be dangerous. Better