at it. It is the case of a shock from which the
sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
himself—as I once heard him publicly relate in
a striking manner. It is the case of a shock
from which he has recovered, so completely, as
to be a highly intelligent man, capable of close
application of mind, and great exertion of body,
and of constantly making fresh additions to his
stock of knowledge, which was already very
large. But, unfortunately, there has been," he
paused and took a deep breath—"a slight
relapse."

The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, "Of how
long duration?"

"Nine days and nights."

"How did it show itself? I infer," glancing
at his hands again, "in the resumption of some
old pursuit connected with the shock?"

"That is the fact."

"Now, did you ever see him," asked the
Doctor, distinctly and collectedly, though in the
same low voice, "engaged in that pursuit
originally?"

"Once."

"And when the relapse fell on him, was he in
most respects—or in all respects—as he was
then?"

"I think, in all respects."

"You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter
know of the relapse?"

"No. It has been kept from her, and I hope
will always be kept from her. It is known only
to myself, and to one other who may be trusted."

The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured,
"That was very kind. That was very thoughtful!"
Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and
neither of the two spoke for a little while.

"Now, my dear Manette," said Mr. Lorry, at
length, in his most considerate and most
affectionate way, "I am a mere man of business, and
unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult
matters. I do not possess the kind of information
necessary; I do not possess the kind of
intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man
in this world on whom I could so rely for right
guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
relapse come about? Is there danger of
another? Could a repetition of it be prevented?
How should a repetition of it be treated? How
does it come about at all? What can I do for
my friend? No man ever can have been more
desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am
to serve mine, if I knew how. But I don't
know how to originate, in such a case. If your
sagacity, knowledge, and experience, could put
me on the right track, I might be able to do so
much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do
so little. Pray discuss it with me; pray enable
me to see it a little more clearly, and teach me
how to be a little more useful."

Doctor Manette sat meditating after these
earnest words were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did
not press him.

"I think it probable," said the Doctor, breaking
silence with an effort, "that the relapse you
have described, my dear friend, was not quite
unforeseen by its subject."

"Was it dreaded by him?" Mr. Lorry
ventured to ask.

"Very much." He said it with an involuntary
shudder. "You have no idea how such an
apprehension weighs on the sufferer's mind, and
how difficult—how almost impossible—it is, for
him to force himself to utter a word upon the
topic that oppresses him."

"Would he," asked Mr. Lorry, "be sensibly
relieved if he could prevail upon himself to
impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is
on him?"

"I think so. But it is, as I have told you,
next to impossible. I even believe it—in some
cases—to be quite impossible."

"Now," said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his
hand on the Doctor's arm again, after a short
silence on both sides, "to what would you refer
this attack?"

"I believe," returned Doctor Manette, "that
there had been a strong and extraordinary
revival of the train of thought and remembrance
that was the first cause of the malady. Some
intense associations of a most distressing nature
were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable
that there had long been a dread lurking in his
mind, that those associations would be recalled—
say, under certain circumstances—say, on a
particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself,
in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare himself,
made him less able to bear it."

"Would he remember what took place in the
relapse?" asked Mr. Lorry, with natural
hesitation.

The Doctor looked desolately round the room,
shook his head, and answered, in a low voice,
"Not at all."

"Now, as to the future," hinted Mr. Lorry.

"As to the future," said the Doctor, recovering
firmness, "I should have great hope. As it
pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so
soon, I should have great hope. He, yielding
under the pressure of a complicated something,
long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and
contended against, and recovering after the cloud
had burst and passed, I should hope that the
worst was over."

"Well, well! That's good comfort. I am
thankful!" said Mr. Lorry.

"I am thankful!" repeated the Doctor, bending
his head with reverence.

"There are two other points," said Mr. Lorry,
"on which I am anxious to be instructed.  I
may go on?"

"You cannot do your friend a better service."
The Doctor gave him his hand.

"To the first, then. He is of a studious
habit, and unusually energetic; he applies
himself with great ardour to the acquisition of
professional knowledge, to the conducting of
experiments, to many things. Now, does he do too
much?"

"I think not. It may be the character of
his mind, to be always in singular need of
occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it;
in part, the result of affliction. The less it was
occupied with healthy things, the more it would