Some years ago a Russian stood in painful hesitation on the threshold of the Church. She had reached it after many dark years wasted away in vain endeavours to still the insatiable cravings of the soul and by artificial interests and excitements fill the emptiness of a life, in which God had no place.

The War and the fearful catastrophe, which had engulfed her country, partially opened this Russian’s eyes to the Truth, though as yet it was but a faint glimmer and in nowise the full light. The mind of the homeless exile was captivated by the powerful organisation of the Church Universal, the one stable Rock and haven of refuge, standing alone, proud and unshaken, amidst the hideous wreckage of the contemporary world. The mind had understood, but the heart remained untouched and the spiritual side was not yet revealed to her. Friendless and lonely, knowing nothing of the Catholic England, this Russian would have been lost if at this critical moment of her life a relative in Paris had not put her into touch with a French priest. A correspondence ensued.