that they are not binding, at least on people such as we are?"
"Is she far from this?"
"Oh no; a few steps beyond the church."
"Wait a moment," said the friar, "and we will go together."
"Will you give her to understand that?"
"I know not, my son: I must hear what she will say." And they proceeded to Lucy's cabin.
The clouds were gathering in the heavens, and a tempest coming on. Rapid lightning, cleaving the increasing darkness, illumined at moments the long roofs and arcades of the building, and the cupola of the little church: loud claps of thunder resounded with prolonged echoes through the heavens. Renzo suppressed his impatience, and accommodated his steps to the strength of the father, who, exhausted by fatigue, oppressed by disease, and breathing in pain, could, with difficulty, drag his failing limbs to the performance of this last act of benevolence.
As they reached the door of the cabin, Renzo stopped, saying, in a trembling voice, "She is there!" They entered. Lucy arose, and ran towards the old man, crying—"Oh, what I do see! Oh, Father Christopher!"
"Well, Lucy! through how much peril has God preserved you! you must be rejoiced that you have always trusted in Him."
"Ah! yes.—But you, my father! how you are changed! how do you feel? say, how are you?"
"As God wills, and as, through his grace, I will also," replied the friar, with a serene countenance. Drawing her aside, he said, "Hear me, I have but a few moments to spare. Are you disposed to confide in me, as in times past?"
"Oh, are you not still my father?"
"Well, my child, what is this vow of which Renzo speaks?"
"It is a vow I made to the Virgin never to marry."
"But did you forget that you were bound by a previous promise? God, my daughter, accepts of offerings from that which is our own. It is the heart he desires, the
