or respect, of no human creature; I have won
myself a tender place in no regard; I have done
nothing good or serviceable to be remembered
by!' your seventy-eight years would be seventy-
eight heavy curses; would they not?"

"You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be."

Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire,
and, after a silence of a few moments, said:

"I should like to ask you: Does your childhood
seem far off? Do the days when you sat
at your mother's knee, seem days of very Iong
ago?"

Responding to his softened manner, Mr.
Lorry answered:

"Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my
life, no. For, as I draw closer and closer to
the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to
the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind
smoothings and preparings of the way. My
heart is touched now, by many remembrances
that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young
mother (and I so old!), and by many associations
of the days when what we call the World was
not so real with me, and my faults were not
confirmed in me."

"I understand the feeling!" exclaimed Carton,
with a bright flush. "And you are the
better for it?"

"I hope so."

Carton terminated the conversation here, by
rising to help him on with his outer coat; "but
you," said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme,
"you are young."

"Yes," said Carton. "I am not old, but my
young way was never the way to age. Enough
of me."

"And of me, I am sure," said Mr. Lorry.
"Are you going out?"

"I'll walk with you to her gate. You know
my vagabond and restless habits. If I should
prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You
go to the Court to-morrow?"

"Yes, unhappily."

"I shall be there, but only as one of the
crowd. My Spy will find a place for me. Take
my arm, sir."

Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down stairs
and out in the streets. A few minutes brought
them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left
him there; but lingered at a little distance, and
turned back to the gate again when it was shut,
and touched it. He had heard of her going to
he prison every day. "She came out here," he
said, looking about him, "turned this way, must
have trod on these stones often. Let me follow
in her steps."

It was ten o'clock at night when he stood
before the prison of La Force, where she had
stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer,
having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at
his shop-door.

"Good night, citizen," said Sydney Carton,
pausing in going by; for, the man eyed him
inquisitively.

"Good night, citizen."

"How goes the Republic?"

"You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-
three to-day. We shall mount to a hundred soon.
Samson and his men complain sometimes, of
being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll,
that Samson. Such a Barber!"

"Do you often go to see him—-"

"Shave? Always. Every day. What a
barber! You have seen him at work?"

"Never."

"Go and see him when he has a good batch.
Figure this to yourself, citizen; he shaved the
sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes!
Less than two pipes. Word of honour!"

As the grinning little man held out the pipe
he was smoking, to explain how he timed the
executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising
desire to strike the life out of him, that he turned
away.

"But you are not English," said the wood-
sawyer, "though you wear English dress?"

"Yes," said Carton, pausing again, and
answering over his shoulder.

"You speak like a Frenchman."

"I am an old student here."

"Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night,
Englishman."

"Good night, citizen."

"But go and see that droll dog," the little
man persisted, calling after him. "And take a
pipe with you!"

Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when
he stopped in the middle of the street under a
glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a
scrap of paper. Then, traversing with the
decided step of one who remembered the way well,
several dark and dirty streets—much dirtier
than usual, for the best public thoroughfares
remained uncleansed in those times of
terror—he stopped at a chemist's shop, which
the owner was closing with his own hands. A
small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous,
up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked
man.

Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he
confronted him at his counter, he laid the scrap
of paper before him.  "Whew!" the chemist
whistled softly, as he read it. "Hi! hi! hi!"

Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:

"For you, citizen?"

"For me."

"You will be careful to keep them separate,
citizen? You know the consequences of mixing
them?"

"Perfectly."

Certain small packets were made and given
to him. He put them, one by one, in the
breast of his inner coat, counted out the money
for them, and deliberately left the shop.
"There is nothing more to do," said he, glancing
upward at the moon, "until to-morrow. I
can't sleep."

It was not a reckless manner, the manner in
which he said these words aloud under the fast-
sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
negligence than defiance. It was the settled