burn up unless I out with it."

Father Boone could see his excitement and knowing that the boy was in an
overwrought condition, which must not be made worse, took him quietly by
the hand, patted his head and said, "Now that's all right, Willie. Don't
take things to heart so much; we'll have a good talk when you are
yourself again." He saw Bill look steadily into his eyes and swallow
once or twice, but he did not understand that the words of an accusation
were sticking in the boy's throat and blocking his speech. So thinking
that the lad had need of rest and quiet, he spoke a few kindly words and
withdrew.

Daly felt like calling after him, but before he could make up his mind,
Father Boone had gone. Usually, the priest did not leave a bedside
without suggesting confession, if the patient were at all seriously ill.
Even if the illness were slight, he frequently took occasion of it to
reconcile the sick person with God, and to bring into the soul that
comfort which goes so far to restore health to the body, besides
bringing solace and healing to the mind. But as director of the Club, he
felt a special delicacy in suggesting confession to one of his boys, and
since, just now, Bill had seemed bordering on hysteria, the priest
believed that a little reassurance was the proper thing.

"The poor boy got a worse shaking up than he is aware of," he thought,
"but it will pass off soon. I shall see him tomorrow, and arrange to
bring him Holy Communion. The dear Lord will do the rest." So he
hastened home.

Daly, meanwhile, had quieted down somewhat. But reflections came thick
and fast. "Father Boone congratulated me, did he? If he only knew what
he was congratulating! Yes, I'm a brave boy! Couldn't open my mouth.
Mulvy would act that way,--not! I wish I had a little of his 'sand.'
Gee, next time I've got to get it out--even if it chokes me!"

He turned over and tried to sleep. The lights were low in the ward now,
and a great quiet reigned. But sleep would not come. He began by
counting sheep going through a gate. One, two, three--he got up to a
hundred, and there before his eyes was a big black sheep stuck in the
gate. "That's me," he uttered, and stopped the count. Then he tried
going up a very high stairs, counting the steps one by one. At last he
got to the top and looking about he saw a room, in disorder. Broken
chairs, upset tables, pictures on the floor, and a boy spilling ink.
"That's me," he sighed. Then he rehearsed