Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. Or, if this goodlooking young fellow will only say the word, I'll go with him. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. The latter were saved; but of the former nothing but the blackened stone walls were found standing on the morrow. "Is it you?" "It is," replied her son, "Oh! why would you not listen to me?" "I was distracted," replied Mrs. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them.
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