St Ignatius College - Ignatian Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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78 IGNATIAN drawn face, framed in ringlets of black hair. It was a beautiful face, beautiful in suffering, and the big eyes, glow- ing with the warmth of fever, were turned expectantly to the open door. Francois crowded up close to me, and I whispered a word of comfort. I could feel his boyish heart beating madly in the desire to rush forward and clasp the sweet mother to him. A moment, and he has brushed past Sister and nurse, and flung himself with a cry into those outstretched arms, that closed about him, and strained him passionately to the mother-bosom. Silently, and with a catch in our throats we three, Sister, nurse and I, gently closed the door after us. I felt the hot tears, tears of joy, and there was joy, heavenly, measureless deep down in my heart. That Christmas Day was those two hearts, made one separation. I offered up my Child for the part granted me reunion, and prayed earnestly one of untold happiness for again after years of painful fervent thanks to the Divine to play in this little drama of that the cup of happiness of which they now drank might never be dashed from their lips. JOSEPH S. MCINERNEY. Uhr Eihhen Gnh Disdaining pomp and clothed in robes of earth, That hide His God-head from all mortal eyes, The Savior comes and as an Infant lies Upon His lowly manger-bed. His birth The heavenly choirs announce, but lost in mirth Cruel Bethlem hears no strains, nor in the skies Beholds His star whose dazzling light outvies The sun in splendor and proclaims His worth. Oh, may our hearts upon Christ's natal morn, Unlike those hearts of old that laughed to scorn His humble birth, adore, and gladly own That bed of straw, the Great Creator's throne! And sweetly may they with the angels sing A welcome to our God, our new-born King! Jos. LEISNER.

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LOVES' CONQUEST 77 face the picture of rage and despair. It was uncle, a piece of yellow paper was crumpled, crushed between thumb and forefinger. An ugly automatic revolver lay on the table. I saw it was time for action, for quick action, no more dis- guising, things had come to the crisis. As he stood staring at us, I coolly took out my pocketbook and extracted the letter, which the day before I had received from Paris. Slowly I unfolded the pages. Monsieur Jean Louis Champol, I began. With a cry of rage, he reached for his weapon, but I was ready for him, and had him covered. He Hung a curse at me, as he sank limply into a chair. I then read the letter, charg- ing him with abducting his nephew, Francois Mahe, whose mother now lay at the point of death. He heard me through, and then, with a volley of oaths, vowed vengeance. I was short with him. Monsieur Champol, I will give you just twenty-four hours to get out of town, if you are found here by this hour to-morrow, I will turn you over to the civil authorities. You will now leave us alone. Pk Ii: Pk if if Ik Pk 325 It was dusk on Christmas eve when the boy Francois and I mounted the marble steps of the great Parisian I-Iospital. A Sister of Charity, a kindly smile on her sweet face, met us at the office, and offered to conduct us to the room of the lad's mother. She told us as we went along that all had been looking forward eagerly to our arrival, and that she, as superioress of the large institution, had received our fre- quent telegrams, and had undertaken the welcome task of breaking the news gently to the sick parent. The silent corridor seemed never-ending, faintly came the odors of the hospital, here and there a light flashed and a nurse in white cap and apron Hitted quietly past us to answer the summons. Suddenly the Mother Superioress stopped, and with a sign for us to wait, knocked on a door close by. A young nurse opened it, and as I looked into the dimly-lighted room, I saw resting upon the smooth white pillows of the bed, a pale,

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mlm Muni 5 Ee Milam! ' i sg igwlgg ,v T WAS one of those chill raw evenings of November. For want of something better tw to do, I picked out a soft divan in the lux- urious lounging room of the club, and de- cided to spend a quiet evening with my pipe. I-cj 'X ' I had been pulling slowly away for a few minutes, my mind centered on nothing in particular, when tive of the other members entered and gathered round a table to my right. I was in the shadow of the wall, and none seemed to notice my presence. For a while they roamed from current topics to small talk and from small talk back to current topics. It is a peculiar thing how, in these last few years, subjects, that before were restricted to the technical expert or to the philosopher, are now discussed by the uninitiated with the same freedom and certitude as for- merly characterized the student. No subject has perhaps become so popularized as ethicsg in club-room, on the street, over the dinner-table, the morality or immorality of acts is argued and commented upon from as many angles and with as widely differing opinions as there are speakers. I was scarcely surprised, therefore, to hear the conversa- tion turn from the consideration of a recent newspaper scandal, to the general basis of morality. One of the group, a young fellow evidently just having completed his studies, and who up to this time had been a silent listener, was re- sponsible for the change. While we are discussing the foundation of ethics, he remarked, could any of you gentle- men tell me, why I must be moral P What do you mean Hughie? spoke up a middle-aged gentleman, who bore all the Whisker marks of a doctor. . Well, what I'm trying to find out, is, what obliges me