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 return from Europe had prepared an entertainment for the reception of his numerous acquaintances, which rivalled in splendor any previous event of the kind in that city. At a table which literally bloomed with the rarest and most beautiful flowers it was possible to obtain in mid-winter, a casual remark attracted Mr. Claremont's attention; which immediately revealed to him his unknown companion in the grove. The recognition was mutual, needing not the formality of an introduction, and thus commenced a friendship of equal benefit to both parties. It was a fortunate thing for him at this time to come in contact with la, person resting so calmly in the bosom of God's love as did Marianne Beaufort. She needed not to be told that God is,—she felt his presence in every breeze that fanned her brow, in the murmur of the forest, in the sparkling rivulet at her feet. It was the all pervading element of her nature, the focus in which concentrated every other emotion, whether in solitude, or surrounded by the votaries of the world.

If she could not always meet his arguments, her faith and trust were never for a moment shaken, and the confiding assurance with which she looked forward to the solution of all his problems forced him to acknowledge the supremacy of that instinct which trusts before it can understand, over all the deductions of logic.

This was just what he needed. The fervent, longing aspiration of his soul could not be met by argument. He had had enough of that. The religious sentiment was strong within him, and required