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SIR,-Will you kindly tell me in your next number what is the cost of a stained glass window for a church (large size?) We wish to put a Memorial window in a church, a figure of a Saint or the Holy Innocents in the centre, and the rest of the window filled in with coloured glass, I believe they call it diaper pattern. We have no idea of the cost of such a window, and being a constant reader of the Churchman's Companion, I thought I could get some idea through you or some of your readers. I shall be much obliged if you will kindly answer this in your next number, as we are anxious to do it at once if we find we can undertake it. At the same time we should like to know the cost of a handsome white marble tablet for a church wall.Yours, &c., M. A. L.


SIR,-Will you or any of your correspondents give me the names of some good magazines for servants to take in? Plenty of stories are what they wish for, and either 6d. or 1d. each month. Can you also tell me of a good and not very expensive History of the Catholic Church-Yours, &c., E.


CYRIL would be glad to know whether the termination "el" of Muriel signifies "GOD," as in Raphael, Michael, &c.; if not, what does the word signify? Also, is it correct to bow the head at the words, "Was crucified, dead, and buried, He descended into hell," in the Apostles' Creed, as is done at the corresponding words in the Nicene Creed? CYRIL would feel much obliged by having his questions answered.


SIR,-Will you kindly tell me in the next number of the Churchman's Companion if you know of any Catholic Sisterhoods in London where they would like various small pieces of work such as table borders, work-bags, alms-bags, pincushions, &c., to sell for charitable purposes?—Yours, &c., ROSALIND.


An IGNORANT SCHOOLGIRL would be glad to know how far the Sanctuary of a church extends-if it is only the space within the altar rails, or does it extend further? Also, where there are two steps before the altar railings, is it proper to kneel on the upper or lower one?

Notices to Correspondents.

Marion inquires as to the Gloria Patri. The earliest source from which this most Christian formulary is to be traced, is found on the occasion of the martyrdom of S. Polycarp, A. D. 169, when the Christians witnessing his marvellous constancy burst forth in praise of the Three Persons of the Blessed Trinity. It would seem to have been first used as an independent hymn as mentioned by S. Clement of Alexandria before the end of the second century. As used after the Psalms of David, it turns them into Evangelical hymns.

E. M. D. A lady at Torquay will write to you privately respecting an Orphanage, if you will forward your present address through the Editor. Accepted: "Hymn for Evening;" "The Holy Night,” (we have altered the word crowned in this poem because none are crowned till after the judgment.)

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"ONLY two crosses more, and then home! I have kept my register ever since Midsummer, and now dear Christmas and home! How jolly!"

This was said by a girlish voice, which was soon joined by a chorus of others, all echoing the same happy refrain through the large schoolroom, where they were standing around the table, collecting various things for packing-books, drawings, music, exercise books. The girls were waiting before tea for a few moments, and taking advantage of the English speaking allowed at that time to chatter as fast as they could, on the one subject which was occupying their thoughts, the happy anticipations of the Christmas holidays.

One girl alone sat apart; she looked rather older than the others, perhaps about eighteen. Her pale face lighted up with no bright foreshadowing, it only looked wistfully up for a moment, almost shrinking at the merriment around her, and then down again at the book before her. Her profile was perfectly classical, the rounded forehead, the delicate aquiline nose, the small full mouth, seemed almost like some Grecian statue in their still beauty. But when she looked up it was difficult to remember any feature, for the grandeur of the eyes, which, fringed with their dark lashes, seemed to speak so plaintively from their blue depths, that you longed to read the story they would tell. No one seemed to take much notice of this girl, and the cheery voices went on until the tea-bell rang, and they moved in greater order into the dining-room.

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One young girl, the first speaker, turned a moment as she passed, and said, in a soft voice,

"Come along, Janette. Don't be so dreary when we are all going home the day after to-morrow. Put away your book, and come down to tea." The elder girl rose slowly, and as she bent down and kissed the other, she whispered,


Darling, I have no home."

Oh, you poor old dear, how dreadful!" said Edith, the young girl, with sudden sympathy. And then they were in the august presence of the superiors, and sat down to their tea.

The next day passed, and the happy morning came. The girls had in several instances to go long distances to their country homes, and it was arranged that they should start by early trains. This necessitated a very early arousing of the young sleepers; but no call-bell was necessary, for the dark winter morning, cold and dreary as it was, was made almost bright by the glamour of cheerful happiness which these young creatures spread around them. They snatched a slight break. fast by the light of the gas, and were ready and waiting before the carriages came to take them to the station. Soon their farewells to their kind mistresses were said, and they drove off.

One alone was left. Janette Meredith sat in the deserted schoolroom, and watched them all depart. She had drawn up the blind, and now, in the slowly-coming morning light she stood still looking out into the darkness. Snow was beginning to fall, and the wind was blowing in gusts, making a weird sound. Otherwise the house was very still; it seemed such a contrast to the noisy chatter with which those rooms had so lately re-echoed. The street too was quiet; people did not care to arouse themselves too early on such a wintry morning. At last a voice was heard, speaking outside the door,

"Where is Miss Meredith ?"

Janette withdrew hastily from the window, and was standing in the middle of the still dark room, when Miss Hensman, the preceptress, entered.


"All in the dark, Miss Meredith? You had better come and have some breakfast. My sister and I were just talking over our plans." This was said not unkindly, but a colder chill seemed to seize Janette as she thanked Miss Hensman, and followed her into the small breakfast-room, where a neat meal was laid out, and Miss Louisa Hensman, the younger sister, was already seated.

For a few minutes there was silence, then Janette spoke,

"You have not had any letter, or heard anything about me, Miss Hensman, have you?" said she, timidly.

"We hoped

"Not a word or a line, Janette," said Miss Hensman. the mail of yesterday might have brought something from your father's friend in India, but there was nothing."

"It is rather inconvenient," said Miss Louisa, "because we had made up our minds to go away this Christmas to my Uncle Thomas, but, of course, it must be given up if you remain another vacation, Miss Meredith."

"I am sure I am grieved to put you to any inconvenience," said the poor girl, earnestly; "I know how good you are to keep me at all, but if you don't mind my staying here just once more, I should not care about being alone the least."


"We could scarcely let you do that," said Miss Hensman. course, it is not your fault that your friends have left you on our hands, but it places us in a difficult position. Do not cry, my dear," she added, as Janette's large eyes were filling with unshed tears. "You must try and make yourself happy, as you have done before;" but she added to her sister, "What she is to do for winter clothes, I don't know; those she has on are really scarcely respectable if our friends come to see us."

"I do not at all like giving up our visit to my Uncle Thomas," said Miss Louisa.

Janette quietly left the room, and the sisters continued their conversation.

"She is to be pitied," said Miss Hensman; "her father was a clergyman and a gentleman, and it is abominable that when he died he should have left her to nobody's charge, and with no money. Why, how long has she been with us ?"

"Six years," answered her sister, "and for the last three no payment whatever. She ought to go out as a governess, as we did; but she is so girlish looking and young, and so unfortunately handsome, that nobody would take her."

"She is very proud too," said Miss Hensman; "still, it must end in that eventually. But then she must have some sort of an outfit, and I do not feel disposed to allow that to come out of our pockets, Louisa."

"Well, I think we must go on as we are, this vacation; but I think

we might leave her in charge of the house, and go to my Uncle Thomas for Christmas."

Janette Meredith still pressed her humble request, that the two ladies would leave her, would at least give her the satisfaction of knowing that she was not preventing them from paying their expected visit, and at last she gained her point. She moved noiselessly about the house, assisting them in their preparations, and helping in every way she could, and eventually accompanied them to the station.

Comfortably ensconced in a first-class carriage, with rugs and footwarmers, and pleasant anticipations of a visit to "my Uncle Thomas" at jovial Christmastide, these good women scarcely cast a thought to the lonely girl in scanty, well-worn black garments, standing on the platform, or noticed the wistful look in her soft blue eyes, as she waved, with inherent grace, her adieu.

She wandered back through the busy streets, looking now and then at the dressed shop-windows, the abundance of holly and mistletoe, the richness of holiday attire. She listened to the sound of children's merry voices, clamorous in their boisterous happiness. Once she looked into a mother's face, full of tender affection, beaming on the young daughters at her side. Then she hurried on. Her young spirit could bear it no longer, and even the solitude of the large dark quiet house seemed better to her than to watch the blessed domestic joys which could now never be hers.

Presently she retired to her chamber, high up in one of the upper stories of the large old house, and quite removed from the few servants who were left in charge. Trembling, she put down her candle. The reflection in her own looking-glass seemed to scare her. Her eyes appeared to stare, her cheeks looked red and unnatural, and her long rich hair, which on account of the burning heat of her temples she had torn down from its confinement, made her look wild and dreadful.

She thought she heard a sound; she listened. But no, all was still. How fearful the silence seemed to her poor overwrought brain. She kept on saying to herself in her agony,

"I am all alone, all alone, all alone!"

Then at last she threw herself on her bed, and after tossing restlessly for hour after hour, she fell into a fitful feverish slumber.

She dreamed of green fields and flowers, of her father's sweet peaceful Devonshire rectory, of the dear old Church tower, from which was pealing forth a blessed Christmas welcome of joy bells; and, above all,

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