within this hour or two, that he had, or could
have, such a paper. It is good, until recalled.
But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason
to think, will be."

"They are not in danger?"

"They are in great danger. They are in
danger of denunciation by Madame Defarge. I
know it from her own lips. I have overheard
words of that woman's, to-night, which
have presented their danger to me in strong
colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I
have seen the spy. He confirms me. He
knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison-
wall, is under the control of the Defarges, and
has been rehearsed by Madame Defarge as to
his having seen Her"—he never mentioned
Lucie's name—"making signs and signals to
prisoners. It is easy to foresee that the
pretence will be the common one, a prison plot,
and that it will involve her life—and perhaps
her child's—and perhaps her father's—for both
have been seen with her at that place. Don't
look so horrified. You will save them all."

"Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?"

"I am going to tell you how. It will
depend on you, and it could depend on no better
man. This new denunciation will certainly
not take place until after to-morrow; probably
not until two or three days afterwards; more
probably a week afterwards. You know it is a
capital crime, to mourn for, or sympathise with,
a victim of the Guillotine. She and her father
would unquestionably be guilty of this crime,
and this woman (the inveteracy of whose pursuit
cannot be described) would wait to add that
strength to her case, and make herself doubly
sure. You follow me?"

"So attentively, and with so much confidence
in what you say, that for the moment I lose
sight," touching the back of the Doctor's chair,
"even of this distress."

"You have money, and can buy the means of
travelling to the sea-coast as quickly as the
journey can be made. Your preparations have
been completed for some days to return to
England. Early to-morrow, have your horses ready,
so that they may be in starting trim at two
o'clock in the afternoon."

"It shall be done!"

His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that
Mr. Lorry caught the flame, and was as quick as
youth.

"You are a noble heart. Did I say we could
depend upon no better man? Tell her, to-night,
what you know of her danger as involving her
child and her father. Dwell upon that, for she
would lay her own fair head beside her
husband's, cheerfully." He faltered for an instant;
then went on as before. "For the sake of her
child and her father, press upon her the necessity
of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that
hour. Tell her that it was her husband's Iast
arrangement. Tell her that more depends upon it
than she dare believe, or hope. You think that
her father, even in this sad state, will submit
himself to her; do you not?"

"I am sure of it."

"I thought so. Quietly and steadily, have all
these arrangements made in the court-yard here,
even to the taking of your own seat in the
carriage. The moment I come to you, take me in,
and drive away."

"I understand that I wait for you, under
all circumstances?"

"You have my certificate in your hand with
the rest, you know, and will reserve my place.
Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied,
and then for England!"

"Why, then," said Mr. Lorry, grasping his
eager but so firm and steady hand, "it does not
all depend on one old man, but I shall have a
young and ardent man at my side."

"By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise
me solemnly, that nothing will influence you to
alter the course on which we now stand pledged
to one another."

"Nothing, Carton."

"Remember these words to-morrow: change
the course, or delay in it—for any reason—and no
life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
inevitably be sacrificed."

"I will remember them. I hope to do my
part faithfully."

"And I hope to do mine. Now, good-by!"

Though he said it with a grave smile of
earnestness, and though he even put the old
man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him
then. He helped him so far to arouse the
rocking figure before the dying embers, as to get
a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth
to find where the bench and work were hidden
that it still meaningly besought to have. He
walked on the other side of it and protected it
to the court-yard of the house where the afflicted
heart—so happy in the memorable time when he
had revealed his own desolate heart to it—out-
watched the awful night. He entered the court-
yard and remained there for a few moments
alone, looking up at the light in the window
of her room. Before he went away, he breathed
a blessing towards it, and a Farewell.

   SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND.

FORMERLY, books, records, human authorities
(as they were called), transmitted occasional
truths, but more frequently error after error, to
successive generations. Strange assertions
appeared to be truths, because the venerable but
credulous Pliny, or such as Pliny, had delivered
them, ex cathedra, to mankind. Now, we choose
to see and judge for ourselves. Even history,
which emphatically might be termed a science of
record, is obeying the universal rule. If we do
not supersede, we, at least, strive to authenticate
history by the evidence of our eyes. And how
do we effect this? Precisely by the same method
that the geologist makes use of, when he is so
wise—or, as poor Cowper thought, so sinful—as to

                                           Drill and bore
      The solid earth, and from the strata there
      Extract a register.