He laid his own upon it as he spoke.

He laid his own upon it as he spoke.

`No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.'

His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.

`You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?'

`None. As yet, none.

`Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once ascertain that, with my knowledge?'

`Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.

`Do you seek any guidance from me?'

`I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.'

`Do you seek any promise from me?'

`I do seek that.

`What is it?'