O pray for me,
When far from heaven and thee
I wander in a fragile bark
O'er life's tempestuous sea."

"He is all right now," reflected Mrs. Mulvy as she went to her room
smiling.

(III)

After his soliloquy, Father Boone went to the rectory in a firm frame of
mind. When he got there, he found Mrs. Daly waiting for him. She came,
she said, to ask his advice about Willie and his father. The father came
home drunk nearly every night, and in such a condition, that Willie
could not only defend himself, but could also injure his father.
Tonight, she went on to relate, they had an awful time. She had to
interfere to prevent serious harm to one or both.

"Only for Willie being so good to his mother I would not dare rush in
between them. But I know that no matter what happens, he would never
hurt me. So tonight I threw myself right between them, and separated
them. Father, I am getting tired of this life. It's not Christian. I
was brought up well, and though you mightn't think it, I know the
difference. So I came to see you to ask your advice. Should I put him
away again? It did no good last time. He came out every bit as bad as
before, and worse. Now what am I to do?"

The priest listened sympathetically, and when she paused, he asked, "Is
he home now?"

"He is, your Reverence."

"Well, I'll go over and see him."

He showed her to the door, told her to say nothing to her husband, and
promised he would be over inside an hour. Some thirty or forty minutes
later he was poking his way up the dingy and dirty stairs to the Daly
flat. Bill was out. No doubt the home had few attractions for him. Mr.
Daly had been pretty badly shaken up by the encounter with his son, and
sat fairly sobered on the edge of the bed. The priest entered, made a
sign to Mrs. Daly to withdraw, and crossing the room, sat down alongside
Daly.

"Well, Michael," he began, "I have come over to see you because I know
you need a friend. You know I married you, Michael, and baptized Willie.
You were a fine man then, none better, and you and the Missus were very
proud of the baby. Well, Michael, you have got clean off the track--and
it does not pay, does it, Michael? You had your nice little home and a
tender wife, and a boy you were proud of. And all that is gone now,
Michael. And pretty soon you'll be gone, too. It does not pay, does it?
For the bit of pleasure you get from the liquor, see the price you have
paid. It