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They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.

"Come, come!" said he, in a whimpering miserable way; "let me get

to work. Give me my work."

Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the

ground, like a distracted child.

"Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch," he implored them, with a

dreadful cry; "but give me my work! What is to become of us, if

those shoes are not done to-night?"

Lost, utterly lost!

It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to

restore him, that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon

his shoulder, and soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a

promise that he should have his work presently. He sank into the

chair, and brooded over the embers, and shed tears. As if all

that had happened since the garret time were a momentary fancy,

or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into the exact figure that

Defarge had had in keeping.