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It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It

attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to

the fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have

said which), passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep

over a hill-side on a wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to

put back one of the little flaming logs, which was tumbling

forward. He wore the white riding-coat and top-boots, then in

vogue, and the light of the fire touching their light surfaces

made him look very pale, with his long brown hair, all untrimmed,

hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was

sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr.

Lorry; his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log,

when it had broken under the weight of his foot.

"I forgot it," he said.