But when I think of my husband, and the
mercies of these people——"

"We will set him above their mercies, very
soon. I left him climbing to the window
and I came to tell you. There is no one here
to see. You may kiss your hand towards that
highest shelving roof."

"I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with
it!"

"You cannot see him, my poor dear?"

"No, father," said Lucie, yearning and weeping
as she kissed her hand, "no."

A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge
"I salute you, citizeness," from the Doctor. "I
salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothing
more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over
the white road.

"Give me your arm, my love. Pass from
here with an air of cheerfulness and courage,
for his sake. That was well done;" they had
left the spot; "it shall not be in vain. Charles
is summoned for to-morrow."

"For to-morrow!"

"There is no time to lose. I am well
prepared, but there are precautions to be taken,
that could not be taken until he was actually
summoned before the Tribunal. He has not
received the notice yet, but I know that he will
presently be summoned for to-morrow, and
removed to the Conciergerie; I have timely
information. You are not afraid?"

She could scarcely answer, "I trust in
you."

"Do so, implicitly. Your supense is nearly
ended, my darling; he shall be restored to you
within a few hours; I have encompassed him
wiih every protection. I must see Lorry."

He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering
of wheels within hearing. They both knew
too well what it meant. One. Two. Three.
Three tumbrils faring away with their dread
loads over the hushing snow.

"I must see Lorry," the Doctor repeated,
turning her another way.

The staunch old gentleman was still in his
trust; had never left it. He and his books were
in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
and made national. What he could save for the
owners, he saved. No better man living to
hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and
to hold his peace.

A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising
mist from the Seine, denoted the approach of
darkness. It was almost dark when they
arrived at the Bank. The stately residence of
Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in
the court, ran the letters: National Property.
Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity, or Death.

Who could that be with Mr. Lorry—the
owner of the riding-coat upon the chair
—who must not be seen? From whom newly
arrived, did he come out, agitated and surprised,
to take his favourite in his arms? To whom
did he appear to repeat her faltering words,
when, raising his voice and turning his head
towards the door of the room from which he had
issued, he said: "Removed to the Conciergerie,
and summoned for to-morrow?"

A WEEK WITH WODDERSPOON.

How Wodder spoon with whom I have never
exchanged a word, in my life, or his—came to
bear me company for a week, and to lay me
under obligation, shall be presently made
manifest.

An exceedingly witless story is told of the
witty Earl of Rochester. His Majesty King
Charles the Second, being desirous of paying a
visit to the ancient town of Ipswich, sent the
facetious nobleman to ascertain what sort of a
place it was; and Rochester, on his return,
reported that it was the most extraordinary spot
he had ever beheld, inasmuch as the town itself
was without inhabitants, while the river on which
it was situated was without water, and the
donkeys wore boots. The first fact comprised
in this statement was trivial in the extreme, and
would have applied to every town in the world
under similar circumstances, for it simply meant
that Rochester had entered Ipswich early in the
morning, before any one was up, and that he
had inferred non-existence from invisibility. The
third fact is now matter of history. In old
times, it is said (goodness knows with what
truth) that the worthy burgesses of Ipswich
used to furnish their donkeys with leggings, in
order to protect them from the mud, and these
leggings were by Rochester termed boots. But
the second fact, that Ipswich stands on a river
without water is as valid, so far as it goes, in
the nineteenth century as in the seventeenth.

The river, or rather the branch of the sea
called the Orwell, which to the London traveller
by boat commences at Harwich and terminates
at Ipswich, is of considerable breadth, and is
bounded on each side by a fine woodland country,
which for richness of verdure and for picturesque
undulations of surface, is not to be surpassed by
any locality in England. The soil is in the
lands of a few proprietors, who, whatever they
have done with the rest of their estates, have
converted all that lies towards the river into a
series of parks, so that one gorgeous combination
of trees follows without interruption upon
another during a journey of twelve miles. At
high water the scenery is indescribably beautiful;
at low water it is less beautiful, but far more
curious. Then, the river which has bathed the
extremities of these fine parks dwindles into a
narrow stream, which has the appearance of
being little more than a ditch, flowing as it does
through two vast plains of verdant mud. It
must not be imagined that there is anything
repulsive in the surface now offered to the view,
for it looks like a broad, irregular field, partly
overflowed with water, which plays among the
irregularities in countless streams, and falls in
miniature cascades. As for the stream itself, it
is so shallow, that the running aground of a boat
anticipated without alarm, as an event of very