What delight to renew his acquaintance with his benefactress! All his thoughts were now turned towards Picciola! There seemed to be something beyond the common course of events in the fact that a seed, accidentally shed within the precincts of his prison, should have germinated in order to cure in the first instance his moral disorder—ennui: and in the second, the perilous physical disease to which he had been about to fall a victim. He, whom the splendour of wealth had failed to enliven—he, whom the calculations of human learning had failed to restore—had been preserved, first and last, by a plant! Enfeebled by illness, he was no longer able to apply his full force of reasoning to the development of the question; and a superstitious feeling, accordingly, began to attach him with redoubled force to the mysterious PICCIOLA. It was impossible to ground upon a rational basis his sentiments of gratitude towards a non-sentient being; nevertheless Charney found it impossible to refuse his affection in exchange for the existence bestowed upon him. Where reason is paralysed, imagination exercises her influence without restraint. Charney’s regard for his benefactress now became exalted into a religious feeling, or rather into a blind superstition. Between him and his favourite there existed a mysterious sympathy of nature, like the attraction which draws together certain inanimate substances. He even fancied himself under a charm—a spell of enchantment. Who knows? Perhaps the arrogant refuter of the existence of a GOD is about to fall into the puerilities of judicial astrology. For in the secrecy of his cell, Charney does not hesitate to apostrophize Picciola as his star—his destiny—his talisman of light and life!