that there existed a general and terrible disease, but rather in assigning its cause, then he found them intractable and rebellious, then he no longer dared expose his doctrine, but by shreds and patches.
"Here is the true reason," said he, "and those even who maintain other fancies are obliged to acknowledge it. Let them deny, if they can, that there is a fatal conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. And when has it been said that influences propagate? And would these gentlemen deny the existence of influences? Will they say there are no planets? or will they say that they keep up above, doing nothing, as so many pins in a pincushion? But that which I cannot understand from these doctors is, that they confess we are under so malign a conjunction, and then they tell us, don't touch this, don't touch that, and you will be safe! as if, in avoiding the material contact of terrestrial bodies, we could prevent the virtual effect of celestial bodies. And such a work in burning rags! Poor people! will you burn Jupiter? will you burn Saturn?"
His fretus, that is to say, on these grounds, he took no precautions against the pestilence; he caught it, and died, like Metastasio's hero, complaining of the stars.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
One fine evening Agnes heard a carriage drive up to the door of her cottage. It was Lucy and the good widow. We can easily imagine the joy of the meeting.
The following morning Renzo made his appearance, at an early hour, little expecting to find Lucy with her mother. "How are you, Renzo?" said Lucy, with downcast eyes, and in a tone—oh how different from that with which she addressed all besides! Renzo was conscious that it was meant for him alone.
"I am always well when I see you," replied the young man.
"Our poor Father Christopher," said Lucy, "pray for
