into the lane made by the bullet in their flesh; but they feel grateful at times when they think of the others who lie dead in the sands of the battlefield. The only shadows that cross their souls are of two kinds--one can be openly confessed, the other is betrayed at times-the former is the dread of a crippled life, the latter the battlefield once more.

It was Sunday morning when the wounded came into our care. The hospital was an orphanage from which the proper inmates had been transferred elsewhere. We had been lectured for a fortnight by one of the most able of German or Austrian surgeons on the care of the sick; we knew of all the means of smoothing the bed of pain; we had practised elaborate bandaging, and we could even have been trusted with a few instruments. But the reality-a bare house with straw beds and a few of the barest essentials for the sick. Not a piece of wadding was to be spared; not a drop of disinfectant was to be had; so far from having mechanical devices to stretch the under bed-sheet, there was no possibility of tucking it in beneath the mattress-and extra sheets as "under-slips" could not be wasted. The troops marching -out had with them certain surgical appliances-called here the "Petit'sche Stiefel"--the back part, as it were, of a topboot made of "tin" (sheet-iron). None of these came back with our wounded, though some might indeed have had them for their good; perhaps like many another arrangement for the care of these poor fellows, the scheme did not work in the face of a victorious foe. Some of these soldiers have to tell of the days they lay wounded and helpless on the field of battle; it is well that every man carries bandaging stuff with him and can help to staunch the life-blood of a comrade.

That Sunday morning was fresh, and the air was pure when we entered the hospital. How different a few hours later, when some eighty beds had their weary patients, and when the air reeked of festering wounds and blood-soaked clothes. It is true that blood does not flow fresh here; and it is wellthe psychological effect of the ever-welling blood is far worse than that of the open wound. But I have seen enough to know that war has its horrors, very real and very painful. When the calf of a man's leg is torn to ribbons and when the process of festering has gone on untended, there is an object

lesson to be had which enters through every sense in one's body. You who sit at home in Ireland, girt in by the sea, governed by laws which impose no obligation on the individual to fight his country's battles, may never learn what pain the warring of the continental powers scatters broadcast over the land. It is the father whose home depends on the work of his hands, that lies in the hospital with shattered elbow. It is the young man of promise who lies in the ranks of the dead beneath a distant mound. Our one consolation is that the Lord God-though the German feels more intimate in his address, "der Herr Gott"-draws profit from it all; many a man has fingered again the long-forgotten beads and received in Communion a long-abandoned Friend. The officer who led his company to the altar-rails before his marching forth, returned here wounded after battles in which he had fought with revolver in one hand and rosary in the other; he was ever a pious man, but the spur which his piety received in the stress of war, was felt by many a sinner, and the confession boxes could tell many a strange tale. Thanks be to God the chaplains have been faithful, even to death, on the battlefield.

What has been written may not be very startling, nor very new; it is from another land, where every fibre of the nation's nerve feels the pain and weariness of war. It is written in haste, for an unexpected chance of communication with the dear old land presented itself to one who is here officially under arrest. The writer has been informed by the Ober-commisaire of Police that he is "interniert" in this city of Innsbruck-to deem himself fortunate that his state in life pre-serves him from "the lock and bolt" of formal incarceration. "What have you done?" the reader asks, in half-suspiciousfear. Dear reader, I am an English subject, God bless the mark-what could be worse? However, I do not feel that I am suffering very deeply. The prisoner of Innsbruck has no objection to remain here as long as the shells do not begin to drop down from the other side of the nine-thousand feet mountain which so kindly afford us shelter.

D. Ua F.

Sweet the dawn and close
Of the summer day;
Ah, more prized the glee,
Isle, thou dost impart,
Shining goldenly

In my loving heart,
-Star of halcyon sea,
Blissful memory!

Melbourne, Australia.

M. WATSON, S.J.

TRANSUBSTANTIATION

The earth full-fruited came, the earth, full-flowered,
By God's good lavish hand with charms endowered;
For this-that here His flowers might be embowered?

But blossoms fade, and fruits of earth decay:
Infinite God works not in passing clay:
He made not earth for things that pass away.

The earth, full-flowered, fruited came, the mine
Of these our bodies, vessels for His wine;
Lo, are we not crossed with His Potter-sign?

The flowers, the fruits for earth; and earth for man;
The Man-God binding all, a circling span,
The things that end-with Him that ne'er began.

For, know you, all that God hath made remains;

The flowered earth, transformed, flows through man's veins, And Christ's earth-body, glorified, in Heaven reigns!

HUGH F. BLUNT.

THE BROOCH OF LINDISFARNE

By JESSIE A. GAUGHAN

Author of "The Plucking of the Lily."

CHAPTER XXIX

BACK TO LIFE

Sir Lauchlan MacLean was hurried back to prison after the accident to MacDonald, and there he waited expecting to be led out to die at every opening of the door. He was no craven, but the stoutest heart must grow faint if the sword gleams over long.

It was small consolation to him to be spared for a while, since he knew that he was now doubly detested. Should Sir Angus die, two MacDonald lives would lie at his door. Suspense was worse to him than any certainty. So he lived from hour to hour, not daring to promise himself another day, not knowing what the minutes might bring forth.

James MacDonald he knew to be of a prudent nature, slow to anger, but even were James to become chief he would be borne down by numbers and forced to make an end of his rival. Sir Lauchlan knew not whether to hope for life or death for MacDonald, but sat head in hands throughout the day and night, and slept not at all.

Sore stricken was Sir Angus MacDonald, and it would require all the skill of his physician to keep the life in him. In his bed he lay with all his vaunted authority for the time suspended, breathing heavily, and still unconscious.

It was the day following his accident, and with him were his mother and his son. All through the night, Muriel and

Ella had watched beside him.

It seemed that James would soon be Sir James.

Little spoke Lady Agnes or James, but the mother anxiously watched her son's features for returning life, telling her beads with what devotion she could, offering to the Mother of Sorrows her heart-broken disjointed prayers.