Marie was human, and when the marriage day drew near there was a fierce flaming-up of resentment in her young heart. She thought of making a scene at the church and spoiling the bridegroom’s joy. Her brother fanned her burning sense of wrong, and promised to back her up if she would seek revenge. But the Maréchale pleaded with her, the love of the Crucified constrained her, and on the morning of the wedding she wrote the following pathetic little note: "He is to be married to-day. The wedding bells are ringing.... It is all over, dear Maréchale, and I am on my knees in my little room. All is well; the peace of Christ is in my heart, and I have the victory." This is no romance, but a bit of real life. Which of us would have done as little Marie did? She did not know it, but she was worthy that morning of the ministry of angels—the shining ones who have never sinned and never suffered. Sometimes the Maréchale would tell her audience a story to prove what wells of love there still are in the hearts of the most abandoned. During a three months’ campaign at Lyons, resulting in one of the most remarkable revivals in which she ever took part, she was giving a midnight supper. Her officers had gone to the most notorious houses and left a card containing the words: "A lady who is devoted to the cause of women desires to speak to them on subjects which deeply interest them, in —— Hall, at twelve to-night. Supper, music and singing." The city had been moved, and the rich demonstrated their sympathy with this effort. Having had frequent experiences of the risks attending midnight gatherings, the Maréchale enlisted the interest of the police, who on this occasion gave her all possible assistance. Late in the evening the table was covered with damask cloths and adorned with flowers. A supper of roast beef, vegetables, fruit and black coffee was prepared. Towards midnight the piano began to be played, that those who entered the hall might be welcomed with cheerful music. Some girls came in laughing, and quickly went out again, evidently thinking there must be some deception. They did not believe that banquets were spread for nothing. Sometimes it was very difficult to convince them that the thing was not a farce. Presently a horrible old hag appeared—it would be difficult to imagine a more ugly, repulsive woman. Coming up to the Maréchale she said— "You are the Holy Virgin. I know it. _Oui, vous êtes la Sainte Vierge, je le sais_." The Maréchale did not know what to say, so much was she taken aback. "You are the Holy Virgin," the old woman repeated. "Come along and have a talk with me," said the Maréchale, "and take supper. I am delighted to see you." The woman laughed. "No, no, no, it isn’t me that you want—_Ce n’est pas moi qu’il vous faut_." "Yes, it is you. I am happy, believe me I am so happy, to see you. It is you whom I want. Do sit down."