St Louis Academy - Academic Log Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

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new fe 'f' 'H -1 fr fm , 1, , 5 X --1' -'QXWEIEQSEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEIEFil-iii G L ld A N I N G S ?Ii'I'-iiiilillllllIllIIIIIIIIIIIIIlIIlI!i!iEE2'Df'''P ff 6 asked me to return it to you and to tell you you will never know how you have helped her. I b This was surely not the Doctor Meadows I had known in France-an unbearable egotistg a foolish atheist. There was a touch of kindness in the voice of this man. I wondered how new, how sudden, how short was this miracle of grace, for as we rode home together, through a long hour of agony, he told me of it: I have had strange dreams about Helen, he said. At first, I could not believe that it was just a question of Faith. But now, I understand, and I am praying for more of this glorious gift for which she lived so nobly. And again it is New Yearls eve. From its familiar place above my mantel-shelf the magic picture keeps watch with me as the old year dies. Exceptfor that, I am alone, but there is a great, new happiness in my heart. The day's mail has just brought me word that another laborer has asked to be given one little part in the work of Christ's Vineyard. The man whom I knew as an egotist, an atheist, a surgeon of worldly renown has stripped himself of all this that he might better follow the example of a brave girl. I wonder what are his thoughts tonight as he kneels alone in his cloister cell, with its rough wood bed, its bare wall, save for the image of a pale, pathetic Christ on a hand-hewn cross, and over his door the words: In a little while- Eternity. 77 VICTORIA WOJNOWSKI, '26. A A 0 4 6 54 e u ti bc: 4 zzav.-1-19-pfzglllll smlilllIlllllllllllllllllllllllllllullllIllullllnulllmllllllllmlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllIllllllmlllmllllnlmllnullllmllllllllllllllllllezlllnmlleve:-f.-nf 1- .1 .-. 13 , I -5. Q I: , -wh, W I a 1 E. wg, - , .f- r ....i, .-' '..-Q f J isa'

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s st wtlfxfus:axeL1Iuuuanuuuumnulumens:-as 'P L li A N 1 N G S 235-Z'i9IHl!lllllllllllllllllllllllIllill!2?fEL'Df'-T'P if e Helen always paced the floor when things went wrong. She walked now with a more jerky step than I had ever seen-up and down, up and down, until I thought the very boards cried out in protest. Suddenly she stopped before the picture of an old French Abbey where we had gone together one day while we were in France. Our hearts were heavy that day. I wondered if Helen remembered. We met a kindly old Monk there who heard our confessions, and with absolution poured into our souls, that God-given consolation which must be a fore-taste of Heaven. VVhen we were leaving, he handed Helen a beautiful colored card on which was pictured a cell-the rough wood bed, the bare wall, a pale, pathetic Christ on a hand hewn Cross, and over the cell doors the words that the good Father told us had steeled the heart of many a disconsolate novice: In a little while, F.ternity.', No matter how hard the task, he said, how heavy the cross, cannot one bear it 'for a little while'? There was only one card. Helen begged me to take it. You will need its inspiration more than I, she said, laughingly, and because I so adored her, I agreed and took it. Now, the charm of that day, the consolation we received, the help we were given to carry on when every fibre cried out against it-these memories came back with new and greater emphasis. Dear Lord, I breathed, watching the change so perceptible in her face. I have done all I can, won't you please do the rest? A few moments later, the clock struck four. Four hours of the new year gone and in a little while-Eternity. Helen yawned. I.et's go to bed, she said, you can scold me some more in the morningf, In the morning, I laughed, and went after her, as I had always doneg but this once, not in the spirit of surrender. We tramped to Mass through the blinding snow that had been falling all night. I sat beside her in the pew, praying, hoping, thinking, wondering. She prayed better than I long and earnestly, with her head bent so low and her slim, lovely body so that once I stooped to listen. When she hnally raised her head, her eyes were bluer because of tears. There was about her then something of the old Helen that I once had known. She left me after breakfast, promising nothing, but taking with her the picture of the old abbey-cell. - Some days later her letter came, as I knew it would. I do not know how to explain it, she wrote. Something in the picture, something in the memories it stirred, something of that old spirit of sacrifice that took us through those terrible days in France, or perhaps--and I guess, after all, it is really this-something in your prayers, in the pleading face of that pictured Christ, in the thought of those words, 'In a little while-Eternity'. The little while may mean many long, hard years, but I am not going to count their length. I am only going to ask for help for each day, even if I do have to 'live through' with every fibre of my broken heart, crying out against it. You will continue to pray, I know, and when the pain eases, as I know it shall, 'in a little while,' I will write to you again. I folded her letter close to my heart. ' And perhaps- , 1 added my grateful reflections to those it contained. I never saw Helen after that memorable New Year's Day. She had earned for herself the merits of a long life of suffering indeed in a little while. Three months had barely passed when I was summoned to her deathbed. I wonder if you would not like to have this again, said an oddly familiar voice, as we left the cemetery the day of her funeral. She prized it highly and 53 1 E d -Y. Q-5921IIIIIIEIIIEIIIIIlllllllllllllllllllllllIIlllllllIIlllllllIIllIIlllllllllllllllllIIllllIlllllllhlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllillIlllllllllllllIIIIIIIllllllllllllllllillllillIll' i itil'-tif Q 2

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