the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him (for the

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moment or, for good), by the story of the Tower, on that old

Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had

preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt

that he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had

found no mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the

populace had discovered there, and which had been described to

all the world. He besought herthough he added that he knew it

was needlessto console her father, by impressing him through

every tender means she could think of , with the truth that he had

done nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but had

uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to her

preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and her

overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear child, he

adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her father.

To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told

her father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care.

And he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him

from any despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he

foresaw he might be tending.

To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his

worldly affairs. That done, with many added sentences of grateful

friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He never thought

of Carton. His mind was so full of the others, that he never once

thought of him.

He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put

out. When he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done

with this world.

But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in

shining forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho

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(though it had nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably

released and light of heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told

him it was all a dream, and he had never gone away. A pause of

forgetfulness, and then he had even suffered, and had come back

to her, dead and at peace, and yet there was no difference in him.

Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the sombre morning,

unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it flashed

upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”

Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fiftytwo

heads were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and

hoped that he could meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action

began in his waking thoughts, which was very difficult to master.

He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life.

How high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where

he would be stood, how he would be touched, whether the

touching hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be

turned, whether he would be the first, or might be the last: these

and many similar questions, in no wise directed by his will,