ver, old fellow,' said Roger.

'So do I,' said Paul, as he took his leave.

He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he
awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from
him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But
the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes,
declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. It was
quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He
put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his
head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be as well that he
should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday?
Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington
quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten
point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend
Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool,
and ask a few more questions of Mr Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth
to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?

At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as
quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and
resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate
his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not
be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered
that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic
woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not
sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would
it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can
fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had
to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first
day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day
in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The
horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realized
something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered
the man to drive to Islington.

How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab
when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing so
slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the
quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall--
whence the way to Islington, acros