the interview with him could not be held that
evening. Another day of torture stood before him. He was about to give
free rein to his feeling of injustice when he recollected again that the
priest with the data he possessed was perfectly right in his attitude.
So, instead of going to the Club, he turned aside and went into the
church. It was always open from five in the morning until ten at night.
Going up to the altar of the Sacred Heart, he knelt down and prayed.

Long and earnestly he poured out his soul to God, ending with the words,
"Accept, O Sacred Heart of Jesus, my sad heart as a sacrifice and bless
my father and mother and Bill Daly and Father Boone."

So saying, he arose light-hearted and made his way into the street. He
actually began to whistle, and when a boy whistles, he is all right with
the world. He did not mind now how misunderstood he might be. It was no
longer a load of lead that weighed him down. Rather, his sorrow had
turned to gold. It was something that God esteemed. He had been able to
give God something acceptable to Him, because it had cost him a good
deal. That made him happy.

Father Boone was on his way to the hospital when he had met Frank so
abruptly. For an instant he too had held his breath. Then as he hurried
on, he could not but wonder whether Frank's chin in collar, hands deep
in pockets attitude, had meant that he was trying to slink past.
Certainly his greeting had been sudden and disturbed. "Well," declared
the priest to himself, "I'll settle this whole thing tomorrow. It's gone
on long enough."

Father Boone entered the hospital and ascending the stairway leading to
the office, found himself before the Bureau of Information.

"How is that little fire hero?" he asked of the clerk.

"I'll 'phone up and see," was the reply.

"O, don't mind, I am going right up. I just asked because I thought you
had news of him here."

"It's only the serious patients whose condition we have here, Father,"
answered the clerk.

"In that case," remarked the priest, "at least he is not seriously ill;
that is some news anyway."

There was a sign on the door of the ward saying: "_Closed_, doctors
visiting." He knew that this did not apply to him, as he was allowed
entrance any hour of the day or night. Still, as it was not an urgent
case, he decided to wait until the doctors came out. The nurse at the
desk offered him her chair, which he declined with thanks.

"But, if you don't mind," he s