s in nothing; but let me carry through the rest of my
misdirected life the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of
all the world."

"Mr. Carton," she answered, after an agitated pause, "I promise to
respect your secret."

"God bless you! My last application is this, that you will believe that
for you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. Oh, Miss Manette,
think now and then that there is a man who would give his life to keep a
life you love beside you!"

He said "farewell!" and left her.

A wonderful corner for echoes was the quiet street-corner near Soho
Square, where Dr. Manette lived with his daughter and her husband. But
Lucie heard in the echoes none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her
husband's step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm
and equal. The time came when a little Lucie lay on her bosom. But there
were other echoes that rumbled menacingly in the distance, with a sound
as of a great storm in France, with a dreadful sea rising.

It was August of the year 1792. Charles Darnay talked in a low voice
with Mr. Lorry in Tellson's Bank. The bank had a branch in Paris, and
the London establishment was the headquarters of the aristocratic
emigrants who had fled from France.

"And do you really go to Paris to-night?" asked Darnay.

"I do. You can have no conception of the peril in which our books and
papers over yonder are involved, and the getting them out of harm's way
is in the power of scarcely anyone but myself."

As Mr. Lorry spoke a letter was laid before him. Darnay saw the
direction--it was to himself. "To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St.
Evremonde." Horrified at the oppression and cruelty of his family
towards the people, Darnay had left his native country and had never
used the title that had, some years before, fallen to him by
inheritance. He had told his secret to Dr. Manette on the wedding
morning, and to none other.

"I know the man," he said.

"Will you take charge of the letter and deliver it?" asked Mr. Lorry.

"I will."

When alone, Darnay opened the letter. It was from the steward of his
French estate. The man had been charged with acting for an emigrant
against the people. It was in vain he had urged that by the marquis's
instructions he had acted for the people--had remitted all rents and
imposts. The only response was that he had acted for an emigrant.
Nothing but the marquis's personal testimony could save him from
execution.

Cou