By this time the whole parish knew about the affair at the Club. Like all reports, it increased in the telling until there was the general impression that the Club was a pack of rowdies. Many a father and mother wondered why Father Boone tolerated such an organization.

"I thought these boys were in good keeping," said one mother to another.

"Yes, and it's worse than we know of," replied the other, "for I tried to get at the facts from my Johnnie, but he was as close as a clam. Unless it was something dreadful, he wouldn't mind telling his mother."

The fact was that the boys had reached an understanding not to talk about the affair at all. They were determined to clear the Club's name and until they had something definite to offer, explanations, they decided, had best be omitted. So 'mum' was the word.

Mrs. Mulvy was returning from early Mass, that morning, when Mrs. Doyle, a woman she highly regarded, stopped her to say that it was too bad that Frank was mixed up in the row at the Club. Mrs. Mulvy only smiled and remarked that she thought there must be some mistake. But a little later in the day, Mrs. Duffy called on her and after a few conventional remarks, said "I really think it is too bad, Mrs. Mulvy, that those boys should be up to such mischief."

"Why, what do you refer to, Mrs. Duffy?"

"I thought you knew all about it—that wholesale smash-up at the Club. Surely it was disgraceful. Furniture broken, the pictures and walls disfigured and the whole house ransacked. It's a wonder some of them were not arrested."

This was news to Mrs. Mulvy. She had heard Father Boone call the doings at the Club serious, but she supposed that they were only serious in his eyes, because of the high standard he had set for the boys. Now she heard for the first time of wholesale damage, of wrecked rooms and furniture! "Are you sure of all this?" she inquired.

Mrs. Duffy replied, "It must be so, for everybody is talking about it." Then she added, "But my boy, George, won't open his mouth about it. It must be bad if he is afraid to let me know. I am going to take him to the priest tonight and find out all about it, and if he had a hand in it—well, he'll wish he hadn't."

Mrs. Mulvy was too confused to speak. She had wondered why Father Boone was so stern when he addressed Frank as "sir." Also she had wondered at Frank's intense emotion on that occasion. "So it was really serious," she reflected. "And gossip is getting Frank all mixed up with it!"

Mrs. Duffy continued hesitatingly, "I thought I'd come over to see you first, Mrs. Mulvy, because they all say that Frank is the only one who owned up to knowing anything about it."

Mrs. Mulvy caught her breath. However, she answered, composedly enough, "I should be sorry to know that my boy was really in such awful mischief, but if he was, I am proud that he owned up to it. It is boy-like to get into a scrape, but it is very noble to stand up and admit it."

"I feel that way myself, Mrs. Mulvy. If George was in it, he will have to own up to it, but I am sorry that he did not do so of his own accord. George is a good boy, though, I never knew him to do anything that I was ashamed of before," said Mrs. Duffy wistfully, as she took her leave. Mrs. Mulvy almost collapsed as she sank into a chair.

For a few moments she was in a state of distraction. At length she sighed, "Poor Frank!" After a while, she arose and went to a little shrine of the Blessed Virgin which she called her oratory. Here it was that the whole family knelt every night to say the rosary together. Here it was that each one said morning prayers before leaving the house for the day's occupations. She had consecrated all her children to the Blessed Mother, and begged her powerful protection for them. The Mother of God had been a good Mother to her devoted children, and so far Mrs. Mulvy had realized that devotion to Christ's Mother was one of the greatest safeguards of virtue. She knelt before the image of the Blessed Mother and prayed, "Mother of God, to whose care I have entrusted the little ones He has given me, be more than ever a Mother to my children now. Especially take under thy protection my good boy Frank. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen."

When she arose she had decided to make no inquiries of Father Boone, nor would she have any misgivings about her boy. She would trust him.

On his way to school the same morning, Frank was stopped a number of times and asked, "What was that scrape you got into, Mulvy?" At first, he laughed it off. But gradually it irritated him, as one after another referred to it. It was his custom to make a visit to the church every morning on his way to school. This morning he went straight to the altar of the Blessed Virgin and prayed fervently that in this trying situation he would do nothing displeasing to her or her Son. He also begged her that she would be a Mother to his mother and help her in this hour of trial. Arising from prayer he felt that he could submit to misunderstanding or even injustice, and do it patiently.

On leaving the church he met Tommy and Dick also coming out.

"Gee!" exclaimed Dick, "you are in for it, Hank. Everybody says that you are the cause of the Club damage. The fellows are saying nothing, but one or two must have leaked, for it's all over the parish that you admitted you were in it."

"Yes," added Tommy, "I nearly got into a fight denying that you had a part in the matter."

"You two are true blue," answered Frank. "Things do look bad for me. But in a day or two it'll be all cleared up." He was calculating on Bill Daly's telling everything to Father Boone on his next visit to the hospital. Frank knew that the priest would see Bill every day or so until he got well, and that it was only a rush of work that had kept the director from going down again before this.

When Frank got to school he noticed almost at once that Mr. Collins seemed somewhat disturbed. He barely bade Frank good morning. When a teacher prides himself on the fact that his class bears the highest reputation in the school for deportment and application, of course he feels it keenly if one of his best boys is the subject of criticism and veiled accusations. On the way to school, Mr. Collins had got many inquiries about Mulvy's character. 'He was glad to say that Frank was the finest boy in his class.' But by the time he reached the class room, he showed his disturbed feelings in his greeting to Frank. The boy really cared greatly for his teacher, and was hurt to think that he should lose his good opinion even for a short while.

However, class went on as usual until about ten o'clock, when the principal of the school entered the class room. He listened to the recitations for a short while and spoke approvingly of the good work being done. Then he turned to Mr. Collins and said, "Have you any of Father Boone's boys in your class?"

"I believe I have. Will the boys who belong to Father Boone's Club please stand."

Four stood up.

"That will do," said the principal. "Be seated. I should like you four boys to report at the office at noon."

At recess, the four got together and conjectured what was up. "O, it's clear," said Frank. "He wants to find out if any of the High School boys are implicated."

"What do you suppose he'll do?" remarked Redmond.

"Why, he'll quiz us, of course. He may have heard exaggerated reports of the thing."

"I don't see that it is any of his business," observed Cavanaugh.

"Well, you know," responded Frank, "that the Regal is mighty touchy about its reputation and he does not want any mud slung at it if he can help it."

At noon the four went together to the office. The principal met them and began at once.

"Boys, it's really not my affair, but I can't help being concerned. You know our school puts a value not only on learning, but on character. I should say, mainly on character. I hate to hear of any of our boys being mixed up in an ungentlemanly affair. I have called you in order to get the truth of the matter. There are bad rumors afloat. I don't trust them. Mulvy, may I ask you to state just what occurred?"

"I'd rather you'd ask Redmond, Father, if you please."

"It's all the same. I asked you, Mulvy, because they tell me you are secretary of the Club, and Mr. Collins informs me you are the leader of his class."

"Thank you, Father, but I have personal reasons for declining to speak of the affair."

"Very well, my boy, I don't wish to embarrass you. Tell me, Redmond, just what happened."

Redmond narrated everything.

"That sounds very serious," declared the principal. "Father Boone is a good friend of mine, and very devoted to you boys. He undoubtedly feels this thing more than you can imagine."

"We know that, and really, that's what hurts us most," said Frank.

"Now, young men, I am going to ask you a question. You are not obliged to answer it unless you wish. It is outside my domain. Did any of you have a hand in that affair?"

The four answered together, "No."

"Good, I knew it. Now I can state that the High School boys were not in the mischief at all. Now another question. Do you know who did it?"

Three answered, "No."

The principal noticed Frank's silence, and turning to the boys, he dismissed them, at the same time asking Frank to stay a moment.

"My boy," he began, "you indicate that you have some knowledge of this affair. You also show that you're concerned about Father Boone's feelings in the matter. I wish you to know that he is terribly cut up over this thing. You are, or were, an official of the Club. If, without actual dishonor, you can give him any clue to the perpetrators, you should do it, for it concerns justice and charity."

"I have considered that, Father, and I am persuaded that I must not say what I know."

"Well," said the principal, "I'll take your word for that. I know you better than you think. If you feel that way, I would not insist a particle. But bear in mind, young man, the only thing that stands between you and condemnation is yourself. With those who know you that is sufficient. With others, you may have to suffer for the stand you are taking."

"I'm suffering now, and expect to suffer more. But I know I'm right, and that's the main thing."

"I am proud of you, Mulvy," said the principal, as he dismissed him.

Outside the school it was rumored that Frank had been ordered to the principal's office and had been threatened with suspension. Color was given this report by the fact that he came out from the school alone and much later than the rest, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The words of assurance given him by the principal had affected him deeply.

Of course the report was that he had got a dreadful laying out from the principal. There were not a few boys of the school who were glad to hear of Frank's downfall. He had been so much respected by teachers, and so well liked by his companions, that there were bound to be some fellows rather envious of him.

As he passed the first corner of the street, he encountered a group of some eight or ten boys standing around. One of the largest boys, John Morris, remarked, for Frank's benefit, "I say, fellows, lots of statues are toppling these days." For a moment Frank's blood boiled, and he was on the point of resenting the slur, when he recollected that after all, appearances were against him and he must take the consequences of his attitude. So he came up smiling. Most of the boys were of the class a year ahead of him, but Frank had always been welcomed in the older groups.

When Morris perceived, or fancied, that his shot had missed the mark, he said calmly, "I see you got a 'call-down,' Mulvy."

"Yes," said Frank, "and a hard one, too."

At this, most of the fellows sympathized with him. Boys have, for the most part, a sense of justice. They desire to see fair play—they know when to let up. When he reached home, he went straight to his mother.

"Mother," he said, "you won't listen to any of the stories and things they are saying, will you? I could speak of it—of that whole Club matter, you know, to the priest, in confession, mother, but to no one else and in no other way. If some one had told you, mother, in the most sacred confidence, something about his most secret doings, and if it was something which you never could know otherwise, would you feel justified in revealing it?"

"Certainly not, Frank."

"Well, that is my position, mother. For the present my mouth is locked, but in due time everything will be set right."

"Yes, yes, my boy. Mother knows you will do what is right. Duty costs dear, but one must pay the price. After all, if it were easy to do right, there wouldn't be much credit in it. It is the hard things that count."

"I am glad, mother, that we both look at it in the same way."

Her answer was a kiss.

On his way to the Club that evening, Frank met Dick.

"Did you hear the news, Hank?" he said. "Bill Daly is dying. He has typhoid."

"Who told you, Dick?"

"Tom Gaffney. He was down to the rectory before supper and Father Boone had just come back from the hospital. He told him that Bill was delirious three days. He also said that he had given him the last rites, and that there was slim chance for his recovery."

Frank and Dick accelerated their pace. They were both anxious to hear more about the matter. At the Club, they met Father Boone going out.

"Boys, say a little prayer for William Daly. I think he is near the end."

"Was he prepared?" asked Frank, a lump in his throat.

"Everything except confession," replied the priest. "You see, he is delirious. I have been down to see him twice a day the last two days, but he has not regained consciousness. I am going down now in hopes I may find him able to go to confession. If not, we must leave him to God and the Blessed Mother."

Saying that, he started off to the hospital.

Frank turned white as a sheet.

"What's the matter, Hank?" said Dick. He could not answer. "Why, what's up, Frank?"

"O, nothing, Dick, I'm all right now."

Like a flash it had occurred to Frank. "What if Daly should die without saying anything about the Club affair!" No wonder his heart beat like a hammer! No wonder Dick showed alarm.

"I've been intending to go down and see Daly," said Frank, "but it has been one thing after another these past two days. Besides, I left him all right. Yes, I hope he comes out of it."

When the two friends entered the Club they found the crowd pretty serious. The exploit which had landed Daly in the hospital had endeared him to the fellows, and they now felt genuinely sorry for him. They began to recall their mean treatment of him on the very night of the fire. They asked one another what it was he had wanted to say, when they gave him no chance to open his mouth. Everything occurred to them except the one thing, the damage at the Club. Somehow that never seemed to connect itself with Daly.

As they sat around more or less in silence, Frank said, "Tomorrow is the First Friday; what do you say, fellows, if we go to Communion for Bill?" Every boy assented.

When, about an hour later, Father Boone returned, he was very serious.

"Boys," he said, "Daly is in a critical condition. The doctors hold out little hope. Tomorrow I shall say Mass for him. I hope you boys will also remember him in your prayers."

"We are all going to Communion for him tomorrow, Father," said Ned.

"O, that's good," answered the priest. "That's very good of you. God knows what is best. His holy Will be done, but we shall pray that if it is God's Will, he may be spared."

"Was he conscious?" anxiously asked Frank.

"No," answered the priest, "I have been watching him carefully the past two days, but so far he has not got out of his delirium." Frank had a return, suddenly, of that faint feeling. True, the Club damage was in the background now, in the presence of death, but it was only deferred, not settled. And what would happen if the secret died with Daly?

Frank was extremely conscientious. He was not counting on what he could lawfully do in case Daly should die. He was determined that if worse came to worst he would bear the brunt of the disgrace himself rather than say a word that would blacken the name of one who had passed away. He must not flinch. He must be a real Knight of the Cross.

Frank left the Club much earlier than usual and alone. Something seemed to draw him to the hospital. At any rate, after five minutes, he found himself on the avenue going down to where Bill Daly lay in delirium. He got permission at the office to visit him. When he reached the patient, he found Mr. and Mrs. Daly there. Mrs. Daly welcomed him and introduced him to Mr. Daly as "that nice boy I told you about."

"And you are Willie's friend?" said Mr. Daly.

"Yes, I am glad to say."

"O, he was the good boy," continued Bill's father. "He should have had a better chance!"

Frank said nothing.

Then the mother began, "Willie was all I had to live for these many years, and now that his father's himself again, maybe God will take away my boy. Oh, but it's a cruel world and hard to understand! But God knows best."

"We are all going to Communion for him tomorrow," said Frank, sympathetically. "When Father Boone told us that William was dangerously ill, all the boys of the Club agreed to go to Holy Communion for him. You know tomorrow's the First Friday."

"O, thank you, you are such good boys," she sighed.

Frank did not know whether to stay or go. Bill lay there unconscious, muttering from time to time. His father and mother sat by the bed on either side. Frank was standing. They were in a private room. Bill had been moved from the ward after a visit from Mr. Roberts. Every comfort that good nursing and attention could give was supplied. An automobile, moreover, took Bill's parents to and from the hospital. Mr. Roberts had told Mrs. Daly that as soon as her boy got well he would put him to school and see him through to any profession he chose, and that he would place Mr. Daly in a good position.

Mrs. Daly told all this to Frank as he stood looking down into the patient's fevered face. "But now I suppose it's all over with Willie," she groaned, "God's ways are not our ways. His holy will be done! I told Mr. Roberts about you, and how good you were to Willie and me. He said he wants to see you. He will be down soon, so you must wait till he comes."

"I shall be glad to," replied Frank.

Bill was tossing about a good deal and now he began a string of incoherent words. His father and mother bent over him to see if they could help him in any way. But he was only rambling. After a little while, he began to speak again. "Dad, you'll never drink again, will you? Dad, you'll be good to Ma, won't you?" Frank was about to retire when Mrs. Daly beckoned to him to remain.

"Don't mind what he says, dear," she whispered. "He talks that way all day." Then she added, the tears filling her eyes, "and what he says is so often the truth. But sometimes he talks awful nonsense. Just before you came, he was telling us about smashing tables and furniture at the Club, poor boy!"

"And what he says is so often the truth," repeated Frank mentally.

Again Bill began to talk. "O, he has 'sand.'"

"I wonder what that means?" asked Mrs. Daly.

Frank shrugged his shoulders.

"But, he's good, too," continued Bill. "That's why he has 'sand.' What a cur I was to put him in bad." Then, after a pause, "Mulvy, never again for me! Straight goods for mine. No more yellow for Bill Daly."

His parents looked at one another. It was all Greek to them. But it had much meaning for Frank. Mr. Daly sat there in deep thought. He was thinking of his early days, his happy home, his fond child. And then came the years after. The broken home, the broken hearts and here now, his dying boy.

"God is punishing me," he thought to himself. "But I wish He would not punish the mother for my sins. O God, spare my boy!"

This last he said out loud. Frank and Mrs. Daly turned suddenly toward him. His voice was choked as he said, "O God, punish me but spare those I love!" Frank's eyes filled as he gazed on the broken man before him.

Again Bill's voice was heard. "Mother, I want Frank. Send for Frank. I want Frank and Father Boone. Dad, we'll never quarrel again. Home will be nice for us all. Mother, mother, mother!" And he lapsed into unconsciousness again.

Frank felt terribly out of place. Twice while Bill was talking, he had started to go, but Mrs. Daly held him. He seemed to be necessary to her now. He was her boy's friend and she wanted him by her. Frank perceived this and he made up his mind to wait as long as he could. After about an hour Father Boone came in.

"I was down near here on a sick call, and I thought I'd just drop in for a moment," he said. "O, you here, Frank? Well now, that's nice, I declare." And he sat down.

The doctor was making his final rounds for the evening, and entered just as the priest was seated. He saluted all, gave a special nod to Father Boone, and then, after excusing his interruption, went over to the patient. All were quiet as he made his examination. When he finished, the mother stood up and looking him direct in the eyes, said, "Doctor, is my boy going to die?"

"We never know, Madam. We can't tell. We do all we can, and hope for the best. That is what you must do too. But he is very ill."

From the tone it was said in, the mother gathered that there was little hope. That was Father Boone's impression also. Mr. Daly seemed to be in a trance. His mind was elsewhere. But his taut face showed that he was thinking regrettable things.

When the doctor left, Father Boone took Mrs. Daly by the hand and said, "My dear child, you must be brave. These are the moments when our blessed Faith means everything to us. God's will is the greatest thing in the world. That is why our Lord, in teaching us to pray, said: 'Thy will be done.' He taught us that because it was necessary. He taught it by example as well as by precept. In Gethsemani He prayed, 'Not my will but Thine be done.' He, the Son of God, had His sorrows too. Resignation to God's will does not mean that we must not feel or suffer, but that in spite of our feelings, we rise up in Faith and see God as our Father. We must realize that He loves us, and we must say to Him, 'Thy will be done.' His will may cause pain now, but it is the pain that profits to life everlasting, and the pain that makes us like unto Him and dear to Him. Let us all kneel down, all of us, and say the 'Our Father.'"

Slowly, solemnly, he prayed. "Our Father ... who art in heaven, ... hallowed be Thy name; ... Thy kingdom come; ... Thy ... will ... be ... done ... on earth as it is in heaven.... Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, ... as we forgive those who trespass against us.... And lead us not into temptation; ... but deliver us from evil.... Amen."

There was a pause—a long pause. Frank thought it was a new prayer. He had never realized all that it meant. It seemed the best sermon he had ever heard. He felt now that he could bow his head to anything that God asked of him and say "Thy will be done." The priest arose, and the others with him.

The mother's face was changed. There was the peace of God on her countenance. In the presence of her dying son, she had the exaltation of Mary at the foot of the Cross. Mr. Daly stood stunned. In a few minutes he too showed a calm face. Father Boone was the first to break the silence.

"If God wants your boy, Mrs. Daly, let Him have him. If you asked Willie for something you would want him to give it to you. If it was hard for him to give, you would know he loved you when he gave it. If God asks you for Willie, show Him you love Him. And now good-bye.

"It is late, Frank. You had better come along with me," he added, looking toward him. They made their parting as consoling as possible and left.

Later, as they struck the Avenue, and were going along in silence, Father Boone began to speak—half to himself, half to Frank. "I suppose you wondered that I talked to them as though Bill's death were a certainty? Well, from my experience, I think it is. If I were sure of being present when he dies, I would not have anticipated. But suppose he goes off tonight, and no one is there but themselves! They have something now to sustain them.

"Our Faith is a wonderful thing. People outside know nothing of the comfort and strength it brings in affliction. There may be some excuses for a fellow when he is young, and healthy, and well-off, to say he has no use for religion. But the whole world isn't young, nor in health, nor rich. Most people have ills of one kind or another. Some are poor, some in ill-health, some old, or misunderstood. So our Lord chose poverty and suffering. He did not want better treatment than His followers were to have.

"When anything hard happens to me, I try to bear it cheerfully, and tell myself I should be ashamed to have better treatment than My Lord. And I've had some pretty tough things. I don't show it, but your hair would stand straight up if I were to tell you some of the things I've gone through. And do you know, when I have something terribly hard to endure, I take a positive pleasure in kneeling before the altar and saying to God: 'This costs me a lot, Lord, but I am glad it does, for I have something worth while to offer Thee'." He heaved a deep sigh.

"Frank, excuse me for talking about myself. Just thinking aloud. You see, that afflicted mother and father bring out serious reflections."

By now they had reached the rectory. "Good bye, Frank," said the priest.

"Good bye, Father," answered Frank, grasping the priest's hand very firmly.

As Frank went on his way, he said to himself, "Gee, now I know where he gets his power. When he prays, he prays. No wonder he does so much good, and so quietly. No one knows anything about it unless by accident."

At the hospital, Daly was sinking fast. The doctor came in frequently. And then, as often happens shortly before death, the delirium terminated for awhile. Bill looked up and saw his father and mother standing over him. It took him some seconds to realize where he was. It all came back to him in a rush. He also felt very weak. He had never felt like this before. Something told him he was going to die.

In a low voice he said to his father, "Pop, I guess I am wanted up there. I'm sorry for all I've done. I know you'll be good to ma." A pause. "Ma, it's hard to go and leave you, but Dad will take care of you like he used to, when I was a kid. That'll make up." Another pause. "Pa, ma, make the Act of Contrition with me." They knelt at his side, made the sign of the cross, and he said, falteringly but clearly:

He fell back exhausted, from his slightly raised position.

In a little while he said, "Ma, I want Father Boone and Frank." The mother knew that the priest was rushed day and night, and hesitated to call him. Then she remembered that Father Boone had said, "If he returns to consciousness, be sure and send for me."

While she was thinking how best to do so, Mr. Roberts entered the room. He took in the situation at a glance. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. On learning of Bill's request, he said, "My machine is here. I'll run up for Father Boone and the boy, and have them here in no time," and off he went.

Mother and father held either hand of their darling. Not a word was uttered. In about ten minutes, the door opened and Father Boone and Frank appeared. Bill recognized the priest, and said with an effort, "I am——so glad——to see——you——Father. I want to go to confession. Then I'll go home." Mr. Roberts, who was not a Catholic, found tears running down his cheeks. Mr. Daly was sobbing.

"I shall have to ask you all to leave the room for a few minutes," said the priest, and as they filed out, he put on his sacred stole, and blessed the boy. Then bending over him, he heard Bill's confession.

Bill told him everything. He wanted to go into details, but the priest, to whom a single word meant volumes, quieted him and allowed him to say only what was absolutely necessary. When his confession was made, the priest took out a crucifix and pointing to it, said, "He came for us, for us who offended Him. He is more glad to forgive you than you are to receive forgiveness. Make your act of contrition, and I shall pronounce God's absolution. Speak from your heart as to Christ on the Cross. He sees your repentance. He will heal you and make you His dear child."

As the dying lad was saying his words of sorrow for sin, the priest was pronouncing absolution. "May Almighty God have mercy on you and forgive you your sins and bring you to life everlasting, Amen. May the Almighty and Merciful Lord grant you pardon, absolution and remission of all your sins. Amen. May Our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and I, by His Authority, do absolve you from every stain of sin. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. May the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the Saints, whatever good you have done and whatever suffering you have borne, make for the forgiveness of your sins, for an increase of grace, and for the reward of life eternal. Amen."

Father Boone arose, opened the door and bade all come in. "All please kneel down," he said, "I am going to give William, Holy Viaticum." They all knelt, including Mr. Roberts. Before the priest administered the sacred rite, he turned to the boy and said,

"My child, I am bringing to you Our Lord Himself, to be your friend and companion. Speak your heart to Him." Then administering the Blessed Sacrament, he said,

"Receive, my child, the Holy Viaticum, the Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ. May He guard you against the evil one and conduct you to life everlasting. Amen."

The boy received the Sacred Host with intense reverence and joy. He crossed his arms in prayer. After a short while, he turned to his mother and said, "God wants me, mother."

She responded, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

The father came over to his son, and taking his hand kissed it, saying with a voice of suppressed emotion, "Good-bye, Willie, pray for your poor old Dad."

"Good-bye, Dad. A kiss."

His eyes caught Frank kneeling beside the bed and he faintly smiled at him.

Then, to his mother, "Good-bye, Ma."

She kissed his forehead tenderly. He looked up a moment, and closed his eyes. Father Boone and Frank were just saying, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death," when the mother gave a gasp and said, "My Willie is dead!"

On the way home an hour later, Frank and the priest walked for a while in silence. Each had his own thoughts. In an indefinable way, the priest showed a marked respect for the boy. He understood all now, "A truly noble boy," he kept saying to himself. But Frank occupied only a part of his thoughts. The mysterious ways of God's Providence furnished him food for reflection. "A soul saved, a life lost," he said to himself, as he considered the reform of Mr. Daly and the death of Bill.

Frank, too, had his thoughts. His tired head was full of all he had seen and heard of Bill's life and family. Bill was a "victim of circumstances." "What if my father had been like his?" he asked himself. "I have never thanked God enough for my good father and mother." Then he was glad both for Bill's sake and for his own that Bill had gone to confession. In his own relief at knowing that the strain of misunderstanding was ended for both himself and Father Boone, he expected the priest momentarily, to refer to the subject. When they had gone a distance in silence, Frank burst out—the first words between them since leaving the hospital.

"Father, you know all about it now!"

"All about what, Frank?"

"Why, didn't he tell you ... about the ..." here he stopped. The priest gave him a look that startled him. "O, I beg your pardon, Father, I forgot it was confessional."

From that moment the subject never came up again. But Frank knew in his heart that he was cleared. It would not matter now, no matter what happened. The subject never came up again, but in a thousand ways, from that night on, Frank realized that Father Boone was his dearest and best friend.

Switching the conversation, Father Boone said, "Our prayers for Daly tomorrow will be for his welfare beyond, not here."

"It will be a great shock to the fellows, Father," said Frank.

"Yes, doubtless. Death always is. And the death of a boy especially."

"Why, Father?"

"Well, I suppose because we don't expect the young to die. It seems out of place. But God calls at all hours. After all, it's only a question of a few years, more or less. We all go sooner or later. The great thing is not the going, but the manner of it—to live in such a way that whenever God calls, we are ready. Then, it's all one,—for compared with eternity, the longest life is but a fraction of a second. Not even that."

They soon reached the rectory. "Good-bye, Frank, my good boy Frank," and the priest gave him a hand shake that almost made him yell.

"Good-bye, Father."

And when in later years Frank recalled that night, he marvelled that one small boy could have been both so sad and so happy.