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e still the weakness； to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me； heap of ashes that I am； into fire……a fire； however； inseparable in its nature from myself； quickening nothing； lighting nothing； doing no service； idly burning away。'
‘Since it is my misfortune； Mr。 Carton； to have more unhappy than you were before you knew me……
‘Don't say that； Miss Manette； for you would have reclaimed me； if anything could。 You will not be the cause of my being worse。'
‘Since the state of your mind that you describe； is； at all events； attributable to some influence of mine……this is what I mean； if I can make it plain……can I use no influence to serve you？ Have I no power for good； with you； at all？'
‘The utmost good that I am capable of now； Miss Manette； I have e here to realise。 Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life； the remembrance that I opened my heart to you； last of all the world； and that there was something left in me at this time which you could deplore and pity。'
‘Which I entreated you to believe； again and again； most fervently； with all my heart； was capable of better things； Mr。 Carton！'
‘Entreat me to believe it no more； Miss Manette。 I have proved myself； and I know better。 I distress you； I draw fast to an end。 Will you let me believe； when I recall this day； that the last confidence of my life was reposed in your pure and innocent breast； and that it lies there alone； and will be shared by no one？'
‘If that will be a consolation to you； yes。'
‘Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you？'
‘Mr。 Carton；' she answered； after an agitated pause； ‘the secret is yours； not mine； and I promise to respect it。'
‘Thank you。 And again； God bless you。'
He put her hand to his lips； and moved towards the door。 ‘Be under no apprehension； Miss Manette； of my ever resuming this conversation by so much as a passing word。 I will never refer to it again。 If I were dead； that could not be surer than it is henceforth。 In the hour of my death； I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance……and shall thank and bless you for it……that my last avowal of myself was made to you； and that my name； and faults； and miseries were gently carried in your heart。 May it otherwise be light and happy！'
He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be； and it was so sad to think how much he had thrown away； and how much he every day kept down and perverted； that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he stood looking back at her。
‘Be forted！' he said； ‘I am not worth such feeling； Miss Manette。 An hour or two hence； and the low panions and low habits that I scorn but yield to； will render me less worth such tears as those； than any wretch who creeps along the streets。 Be forted But； within myself； I shall always be； towards you； what I am now； though outwardly I shall be what you have heretofore seen me。 The last supplication but one I make to you； is； that you will believe this of me。'
‘I will； Mr。 Carton。'
‘My last supplication of all； is this； and with it； I will relieve you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison； and between whom and you there is an impassable space。 It is useless to say it； I know； but it rises out of my soul。 For you； and for any dear to you； I would do anything。 If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it； I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you。 Try to hold me in your mind； at some quiet times； as ardent and sincere in this one thing。 The time will e； the time will not be long in ing； when new ties will be formed about you……ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you so adorn……the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden you。 O Miss Manette； when the little picture of a happy father's face looks up in yours； when you see your own bright beauty springing up anew at your feet； think now and then that there is a man who would give his life； to keep a life you love beside you！' He said； ‘Farewell！' said a last ‘God bless you！' and left her。
CHAPTER XIV
The Honest Tradesman
TO the eyes of Mr。 Jeremiah Cruncher； sitting on his stool in Fleet Street with his grisly urchin beside him； a vast number and variety of objects in movement were every day presented。 Who could sit upon anything in Fleet Street during the busy hours of the day； and not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions； one ever tending westward with the sun； the other ever tending eastward from the sun； both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goes down！
With his straw in his mouth； Mr。 Cruncher sat watching the two streams； like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty watching one stream……saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever running dry。 Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind； since Ball part of his ine was derived from the pilotage of timid women （mostly of a full habit and past the middle of life） from Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite ore。 Brief as such panionship was in every separate instance； Mr。 Cruncher never failed to bee so interested the lady as to express a strong desire to have the honour drinking her very good health。 And it was from the gifts towed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent purpose； that he recruited his finances； as just now observed。
Time was； when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place； and mused in the sight of men。 Mr。 Cruncher； sitting on stool in a public place； but not being a poet； mused as little as possible； and looked about him。
It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were few； and belated women few； and when his affairs in general were so unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs。 Cruncher must have been ‘flopping' in some pointed manner； when an unusual concourse pouring down Fleet Street westward； attracted his attention。 Looking that way； Mr。 Cruncher made out that me kind of funeral was ing along； and that there was popular objection to this funeral； which engendered uproar。
‘Young Jerry；' said Mr。 Cruncher； turning to his offspring； ‘it's a buryin'。'
‘Hooroar； father！' cried Young Jerry。
The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious significance。 The elder gentleman took the cry so ill； that he watched his opportunity； and smote the young gentleman on the ear。
‘What d'ye mean？ What are you hooroaring at？ What do you want to conwey to your own father； you young Rip？ This boy is a getting too many for me！' said Mr。 Cruncher； surveying him。 ‘Him and his hooroars。 Don't let me hear no more of you； or you shall feel some more of me。 D'ye hear？'
‘I warn't doing no harm；' Young Jerry protested； rubbing his cheek。
‘Drop it then；' said Mr。 Cruncher； ‘I won't have none of your no harms。 Get atop of that there seat； and look at the crowd。'
His son obeyed； and the crowd approached； they were bawling and hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach； in which mourning coach there was only one mourner； dressed in the dingy trappings that were considered essential to the dignity of the position。 The position appeared by no means to please him； however； with an increasing rabble surrounding the coach； deriding him； making grimaces at him； and incessantly groaning and calling out： ‘Yah！ Spies！ Tst！ Yaha！ Spies！' with many pliments too numerous and forcible to repeat。
Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr。 Cruncher； he always pricked up his senses； and became excited； when a funeral passed Tellson's。 Naturally； therefore； a funeral with this unmon attendance excited him greatly； and he asked of the first man who ran against him：
‘What is it； brother？ What's it about？'
‘I don't know；' said the man。 ‘Spies！ Yaha！ Tst！ Spies！'
He asked another man。 ‘Who is it？'
‘I don't know；' returned the man； clapping his hands to his mouth nevertheless； and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the greatest ardour； ‘Spies！ Yaha！ Tst； tst！ Spi…ies！'
At length； a person better informed on the merits of the case； tumbled against him； and from this person he learned that the funeral was the funeral of One Roger Cly。
‘Was He a spy？' asked Mr。 Crunc