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On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his

jackal that "he had thought better of that marrying matter") had

carried his delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and

scent of flowers in the City streets had some waifs of goodness

in them for the worst, of health for the sickliest, and of youth

for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod those stones. From being

irresolute and purposeless, his feet became animated by an

intention, and, in the working out of that intention, they took

him to the Doctor's door.

He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She

had never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with

some little embarrassment as he seated himself near her table.

But, looking up at his face in the interchange of the first few

common-places, she observed a change in it.

"I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!"

"No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to

health. What is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?"