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What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what

would lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would

tarnish in Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted

in prisons, and when they should have violently perished; how

many accounts with Tellson's never to be balanced in this world,

must be carried over into the next; no man could have said, that

night, any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could, though he thought

heavily of these questions. He sat by a newly-lighted wood fire

(the blighted and unfruitful year was prematurely cold), and on

his honest and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the

pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the room distortedly

reflect--a shade of horror.