August had now arrived, but the distemper knew no cessation.  On the contrary, it manifestly increased in violence and malignity.  The deaths rose a thousand in each week, and in the last week in this fatal month amounted to upwards of sixty thousand!

But, terrible as this was, the pestilence had not yet reached its height.  Hopes were entertained that when the weather became cooler, its fury would abate; but these anticipations were fearfully disappointed.  The bills of mortality rose the first week in September to seven thousand, and though they slightly decreased during the second week—­awakening a momentary hope—­on the third they advanced to twelve thousand!  In less than ten days, upwards of two thousand persons perished in the parish of Aldgate alone; while Whitechapel suffered equally severely.  Out of the hundred parishes in and about the city, one only, that of Saint John the Evangelist in Watling-street, remained uninfected, and this merely because there was scarcely a soul left within it, the greater part of the inhabitants having quitted their houses, and fled into the country.

The deepest despair now seized upon all the survivors.  Scarcely a family but had lost half of its number—­many, more than half—­while those who were left felt assured that their turn would speedily arrive.  Even the reckless were appalled, and abandoned their evil courses.  Not only were the dead lying in the passages and alleys, but even in the main thoroughfares, and none would remove them.  The awful prediction of Solomon Eagle that “grass would grow in the streets, and that the living should not be able to bury the dead,” had come to pass.  London had become one vast lazar-house, and seemed in a fair way of becoming a mighty sepulchre.

During all this time, Saint Paul’s continued to be used as a pest-house, but it was not so crowded as heretofore, because, as not one in fifty of the infected recovered when placed under medical care, it was not thought worth while to remove them from their own abodes.  The number of attendants, too, had diminished.  Some had died, but the greater part had abandoned their offices from a fear of sharing the fate of their patients.  In consequence of these changes, Judith Malmayns had been advanced to the post of chief nurse at the cathedral.  Both she and Chowles had been attacked by the plague, and both had recovered.  Judith attended the coffin-maker, and it was mainly owing to her that he got through the attack.  She never left him for a moment, and would never suffer any one to approach him—­a necessary precaution, as he was so much alarmed by his situation that he would infallibly have made some awkward revelations.  When Judith, in her turn, was seized, Chowles exhibited no such consideration for her, and scarcely affected to conceal his disappointment at her recovery.  This want of feeling on his part greatly incensed her against him, and though he contrived in some degree to appease her, it was long