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her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up

and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.

“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I

am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have

been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that

we might have hope and comfort here today. I think you were sent

to me by Heaven.”

“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me,

dear child, and mind no other object.”

“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing

when I let it go, if they are rapid.”

“They will be rapid. Fear not!”

The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they

speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to

hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother,

else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark

highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.

“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last