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placing his suggestions before our readers; but they are undoubtedly of a nature to raise many anxious questions, and we must with regard to them emphatically repeat our habitual statement that we are not responsible for the opinions of our correspondents.-ED. C.C.]

SOCIETY OF S. KATHARINE.

SIR,-Since I wrote to you last about the Society of S. Katharine, it has grown much and is progressing most favourably. The Society now numbers 60 in all, viz., Warden, Superior, 3 Priests Associate, 2 Assistant Superiors of Branches, (1 in the West, 1 in the North of England,) 29 Associates, 24 Assistant Associates. The Society has a Charity belonging to it called the "Grant Fund," for helping poor people ordered by doctors to Convalescent Homes or Hospitals. Grants of from 5s. to 10s. are given (according to the merits of the case,) to help towards clothes or journey, which are often such a difficulty in such cases. No grant can be obtained without a printed form (supplied by the Superior,) and signed by the clergyman and doctor recommending the case. Subscriptions to the Fund are 5s. per annum.-Yours, &c., CAROLINE LEWIN, Superior S. S. K., Abingdon, Berks.

Queries.

SUNDAY SCHOOLS.

SIR,-Could you kindly furnish me with the names of any books or papers, arranged for the teaching in Sunday Schools, giving an outline of lessons for each Sunday, with a view for the general teaching of the same subject through

out the School?-Yours, &c., M. WAKE

FIELD.

"NOT GONE FROM MEMORY." SIR,-Can you or any of your readers inform me who is the writer of these lines?

"Not gone from memory, nor from love, But gone to our FATHER's home above." Yours, &c., A. S.

"AND GLADLY RESIGN." SOPHIE would feel much obliged to the Editor or any of the readers of the Churchman's Companion if they could tell her who is the author of the following lines.

"And gladly resign when the summons is given,

The tumults of earth for the calmness of heaven."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Miss E. WILLIAMS, 66, Lemon Street, Truro, Cornwall, begs to acknowledge with many thanks, a parcel of books and Magazines from M. J., Shrewsbury.

BISHOP WILBERFORCE'S CONFIRMATION MEMORIAL WINDOW, NOW ERECTED IN S. MARY'S, SOUTHAMPTON.

Miss L. PHILLIMORE (5, Arlington Street, S. James's, S.W.) acknowledges with her best thanks for the above: per Miss Prince, 8s.; E. M. Holton, 28.; Miss E. Belfour, 5s.; Miss C. E. Ross, 5s.; H. Preedy, Esq., R.N., £1; E. H. W., 5s.; Ivor Richards, Esq., 2s. 6d. £56 still required, £409 received, further offerings gladly received as above. P.0.0.8 payable at S. James's St. S.W.

Notices to Correspondents.

Accepted: "Not without witness ;""The Flower Mission," (for June.)

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THE weary waiting time left its impress on Irene's face. Now and then she would be in boisterous spirits, laughing and playing with the boys as though she had not a care in the world, then depressed and gloomy, never long in the same mood. Irene did indeed seem a misnomer in her case. Lucy grew a little stronger each day, and would often repeat that, if all were well with Irene, life would only seem too happy. Oh! that inevitable "if !" how it throws its shadow across the brightest path, reminding us that here we must not seek for what is reserved for us in our future home.

The longest days pass away at last, and the Indian Mail was due, but it brought no letter for Irene. The poor girl was strained up to such a pitch of excitement that we began to dread a serious illness. But she was not kept long in suspense. Mr. Purcell came to Leighscombe bringing with him a letter from Major Unwin in which he said he could not think of encouraging Miss Purcell to run counter to the wishes of her friends, and that as their objection to the marriage was so persistent he thought it better to assure them at once that he would give up all idea of winning her, feeling sure that it would not be long before some one would appear on the scene more fortunate than he had been.

There was such an utter want of everything like sentiment in the letter, such an entire ignoring of all the devotion he had hitherto professed, that for a while Irene could not grasp the truth, but slowly it dawned on her in all its harshness. Egerton Unwin` had deceived her. She had been wrong, all the world right. It was not for her he had cared, it was for her money he had wooed her. Her pride was

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hurt even more than her affections. There had been no openly recognised engagement, so there were no presents to return, or letters to write; but life had lost its one point of interest. For years the outward part of religion had been what had made life a pleasure. Then when severed by circumstances from that, the love for Egerton Unwin had filled the blank, had become paramount; now that in turn had failed miserably, leaving her a wiser, and her friends could but hope, a better

woman.

Lucy felt her brother's conduct acutely, and I was curious to see what effect it would have on the friendship of the two girls. I feared Irene might grow cold to the sister of her faithless lover, but she did not. She seemed to cling to Lucy all the more, and after the first few days the subject was by mutual consent a sealed one.

Autumn drew on, and still Irene was depressed, unhappy, putting herself away wilfully from all religious privileges. In our long walks and talks she would say bitterly,

"No, your brother told me once, that my services and my parish work were my Leighscombe dissipation, and I believe he was right. I will never make them that again. Life must be lived, the days will go somehow, but I will not be a hypocrite."

Once I asked her what she meant to do when Lucy was married, and tried to make her talk naturally, but she shivered at the thought of the life at Lawton, and replied,

"Three years ago I would have told you that I should spend my time in working with the Sisters at Newtown as an Associate; not a confirmed Sister, I could not have borne that, but with my money and my taste for Church work I could have made that my dissipation, going out into society now and then, and well-perhaps in the end marrying some respectable old man; but now the whole thing is distasteful, I hate it. I hate myself for ever having thought of it. Trying to serve two masters is weary work, you gain the rewards of neither; it is all bitterness, and disappointment; so just as likely as not I shall go to London next summer with the Powyses, go in for the full gaieties of the season and forget it all."

"And by the all, oh! Irene," I exclaimed, "you mean your soul, your very self, all for which this life was given you. You cannot think what you are saying!"

"You are shocked again," she replied, with a hollow laugh; "but the only difference between me and the hundred and one young ladies'

you meet is that I say what they think. I am just one step in advance of them. I expect for the most part they would all tell you, if they spoke the truth, that living was a weary business with them, unless they had some definite end in view. I wish I was poor, and had to earn my living, there might be some pleasure in a holiday then, at least there would be some excitement in the thought that unless you toiled you would not eat. Nobody wants me, and if I began to work, such work as lies in my way at once, the thought would ever be recurring that the world would go on just as well without me; that after all I was as usual only pleasing myself, and might just as well go with the stream, and become what papa would call a ‘sensible girl.'

"But Irene,” I cried, aghast, "where are all your aspirations after the true and real in life, the work that shall hereafter be judged not by its visible results but by the motives which actuated it? You are a soldier pledged to fight under the banner of the Cross, and fight you must, or bear, in that great day, the awful penalty of a deserter. GOD has allowed you to see what He requires of you. He has put a high standard before you, and if you wilfully refuse to aim at it what excuse can you make to yourself?"

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The standard I held up to Lucy, and talked of to you, has long passed away out of my reach," she replied, more sadly than harshly; "I seem to have had the shadow, and Lucy the substance of it all.”

I laid my hand gently on hers as it rested in her lap, but she did not return my pressure, and we sat on for a few moments in silence. The waves broke in curling ripples on the yellow sand at our feet, the rock over our head gave a welcome shelter from the sun still warm, though the corn had already ripened and been stored away. In the distance were white sails, specks on the horizon. It was a calm lovely picture, but it is only when the mind is at rest that beauty gives true pleasure, when we are unhappy and restless the quiet loveliness is out of unison, it jars, the sunshine mocks our sadness.

Irene abruptly broke in on my reverie by jumping up suddenly, and beginning to clamber violently over the rocks. I followed by a more circuitous but safer route, and we met on the down above. Mine was the longer way, and Irene was sitting on the turf waiting for me. She drew me down beside her, and gave me a warm passionate kiss that was more eloquent than words. We did not speak again until we reached the cottage, which was only a few minutes' walk from that part of the cliff. Lucy was at the gate, she often ventured to walk as far

alone now, to enjoy the fresh breeze that came up the creek. Beauty never seemed to make a discord in her peaceful heart.

"What a pity we cannot change names," said Irene, kissing her in a motherly protecting manner that she often assumed towards Lucy. "I believe, mon amie, you do not know what unrest means, you are a little, calm oasis, in the midst of a troublesome world."

But as I looked at Irene's tall straight figure, and firm step, as she gave her arm to support the trembling movements of her friend, and recalled the lives of the two girls, I felt as I had never done before that happiness depends much less on external circumstances than on the history of the hidden life; that a calm, steadfast faith, and an unselfish aim are the only sure roads to it, that both are the gifts of Him "from Whom all good things do come," and only to be received by those who seek for them humbly in the ways of His appointment.

The afternoon of

When I came home I told Arthur my conversation with Irene, and begged him to talk to her. He was grieved and very anxious about her, but she never would talk gravely to him, always making some turn in the conversation, dreading lest it should become personal, saying things so evidently on purpose to shock him, that he would not notice them in any way, but by a contemptuous silence; yet I knew from Lucy that she had a great respect for him, and thought much of his opinion. I could not help hoping that if he could once get her to talk to him as her parish priest he might help her. Circumstances so often overruled for our good favoured my views. the very next day Irene came to the parsonage to change some books, I asked her to come with me into the library to select some more, not knowing that Arthur had come in unexpectedly to write some letters. On seeing him seated at the table, she said hastily, “We will not disturb you, Mr. Melville, another afternoon will do quite as well for the books, and it is already late for the post." But he would not let her go, assuring her that the letter could wait quite well. At that moment I was summoned to attend to some household duty, and asking Irene to find what she wanted, and join me in the drawing-room, I left them. A faint hope arose that Arthur might take that opportunity to speak to her, and I was not disappointed. More than an hour passed before she came to me, and then she had evidently been crying bitterly. "He has been so kind," she said, "I am glad I have spoken to him. I will come and see you to-morrow, I cannot talk now."

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