himself. He left Jerry with them, as a figure
to fill a doorway that would bear considerable
knocking on the head, and returned to
his own occupations. A disturbed and doleful
mind he brought to bear upon them, and
slowly and heavily the day lagged on with
him.

It wore itself out, and wore him out with it,
until the Bank closed. He was again alone in
his room of the previous night, considering what
to do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair.
In a few moments, a man stood in his presence,
who, with a keenly observant look at him,
addressed him by his name.

"Your servant," said Mr. Lorry. "Do you
know me?"

He was a strongly made man with dark curling
hair, from forty-five to fifty years of age. For
answer he repeated, without any change of
emphasis, the words:

"Do you know me?"

"I have seen you somewhere."

"Perhaps at my wine-shop?"

Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said:
"You come from Doctor Manette?"

"Yes. I come from Doctor Manette."

"And what says he? What does he send
me?"

Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open
scrap of paper. It bore the words in the
Doctor's writing,

"Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this
place yet. I have obtained the favour that the
bearer has a short note from Charles to his wife.
Let the bearer see his wife."

It was dated from La Force, within an hour.

"Will you accompany me," said Mr. Lorry,
joyfully relieved after reading this note aloud,
"to where his wife resides?"

"Yes," returned Defarge.

Scarcely noticing, as yet, in what a curiously
reserved and mechanical way Defarge spoke,
Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down
into the court-yard. There, they found two
women; one, knitting.

"Madame Defarge, surely!" said Mr. Lorry,
who had left her in exactly the same attitude
some seventeen years ago.

"It is she," observed her husband.

"Does Madame go with us?" inquired Mr.
Lorry, seeing that she moved as they moved.

"Yes. That she may be able to recognise the
faces and know the persons. It is for their
safety."

Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner,
Mr. Lorry looked dubiously at him, and led the
way. Both the women followed; the second
woman being The Vengeance.

They passed through the intervening streets
as quickly as they might, ascended the staircase
of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was
thrown into a transport by the tidings Mr. Lorry
gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand
that delivered his note—little thinking what it
had been doing near him in the night, and might,
but for a chance, have done to him.

"DEAREST,—Take courage. I am well, and your
father has influence around me. You cannot answer
this. Kiss our child for me."

That was all the writing. It was so much,
however, to her who received it, that she turned
from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving,
thankful, womanly action, but the hand made no
response—dropped cold and heavy, and took to
its knitting again.

There was something in its touch that gave
Lucie a check. She stopped in the act of
putting the note in her bosom, and, with her
hands yet at her neck, looked terrified at Madame
Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive
stare.

"My dear," said Mr. Lorry, striking in to
explain; "there are frequent risings in the
streets; and, although it is not likely that they
will ever trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes
to see those whom she has the power to protect
at such times, to the end that she may know
them that she may identify them. I believe,"
said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his reassuring
words, as the stony manner of all the three
impressed itself upon him more and more, "I state
the case, Citizen Defarge?"

Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave
no other answer than a gruff sound of acquiescence.

"You had better, Lucie," said Mr. Lorry,
doing all he could to propitiate, by tone and
manner, "have the dear child here, and our good
Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English
lady, and knows no French."

The lady in question, whose rooted conviction
that she was more than a match for any
foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and
danger, appeared with folded arms, and observed
in English to The Vengeance whom her eyes
first encountered, "Well, I am sure, Boldface!
I hope you are pretty well!" She also bestowed
a British cough on Madame Defarge; but,
neither of the two took much heed of her.

"Is that his child?" said Madame Defarge,
stopping in her work for the first time, and
pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if
it were the finger of Fate.

"Yes, madame," answered Mr. Lorry; "this
is our poor prisoner's darling daughter, and only
child."

The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge
and her party seemed to fall so threatening and
dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to
her breast. The shadow attendant on Madame
Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
threatening and dark, on both the mother and the
child.

"It is enough, my husband," said Madame
Defarge. "I have seen them. We may go."

But, the suppressed manner had enough of
menace in it—not visible and presented, but
indistinct and withheld—to alarm Lucie into
saying, as she laid her appealing hand on
Madame Defarge's dress: