us turns of their enthusiasm,
than could find, in that multiplicity of exertions to attain what they
call a good, any thing that claims our respect. So they run after art,
or philosophy; suppose that the eternal light is to dawn upon them in
science, or in colour and sound; weary themselves with history and the
perplexed affairs of life; and in their eagerness neglect the one thing
needful, which supplies and makes up for all beside. Since I have found
this spring which so sweetly satiates every thirst of the soul, I have
had no sense left for that motley variety of objects, towards which in
my youth I myself turned many a longing look."

"How you force my admiration!" exclaimed the counsellor: "with what
eagerness have I sought life, and grasped only an empty shadow! And yet
how easy is it, to find that truth, which never deceives us, never
slips away from us, which fills every desire of the heart, that in
which alone we have real life and being."

"I understand you," answered the Baroness, "You belong to our circle;
it is a blessed thing to feel, that the communion of pious and
heavenly-minded spirits is constantly increasing."

"We have a prospect of the most glorious times!" exclaimed the young
officer in a rapture. "And how blest we must feel ourselves, since that
which elevates us above the stale routine of life, is eternal truth
itself; since this it is which rules us, and under its control we can
never miscarry, never err; for we surrender ourselves to love, to work
in us and reveal its mysteries to our hearts."

"Precisely so," concluded the dignified elderly gentleman; "this it is,
which gives us that assurance which distinguishes us from ordinary
enthusiasts or fanatics. You have spoken a great truth, my dear
Ferdinand, and it is on this account I value you so highly. No one
finds the right point by so direct a road as yourself, and no one can
then express it so clearly and simply." He embraced the young man,
looked towards heaven, and a big tear sparkled in his fine dark eye.
The Baroness rose, and joined the group; all were moved, only Miss
Dorothea turned away, and seemed to be searching for something she had
lost in the shrubbery.

It did not escape Alfred's attention, that the mother looked with an
expression of pain towards her eldest child, who seemed strangely
excluded from this circle of sympathy and love. Baron Wallen, that was
the name of the elderly friend of the house, with an air of melting