"That is good," remarked the priest, "and now another thing. You know his mother is terribly broken up by her boy's death. That is natural. She would not be a mother otherwise. Of course, she is resigned to God's will. So was Our Blessed Mother, at the foot of the Cross, but that did not prevent her heart from being pierced with grief. Mrs. Daly was very brave under it all. So much so that Mr. Roberts, who was there, said to me afterwards, 'Your religion is a wonderful thing in affliction.' But, boys, she feels the separation keenly. William was a remarkably good boy to his mother. Now that he is dead, I can say to you that the poor boy had an awful lot to contend with, and if it were not for his religion and his mother, no one can say how he might have turned out.
"Now I suggest, boys, that you divide up, and some of you go over to the house at one time, and some at another, on a visit of condolence."
"Yes, Father," said Tommy. "We were thinking about going over."
"What's the best thing to say to her, Father, if we want to show our sympathy?" asked Dick.
"Nothing," replied the priest. "Words are useless in deep sorrow. Just go there quietly. Your mere presence will say more than any words, if your behavior is considerate."
"Shouldn't we say anything at all?" asked Ned.
"Just a word or two to say who you are, and that you are sorry for her. Your presence is what will talk most."
It was after ten o'clock that evening when Father Boone reached the Daly flat. He had been stopped several times on his way over, by inquiries about the Club, and Daly. On entering he found six of the Club boys kneeling around the body saying the rosary. The lads had held a meeting after Father Boone had left them, and decided to go in groups of six, each group to stay a half hour. They also decided that the best way they could show their sympathy for the parents, and to aid Bill, was to say the beads.
In order not to disturb them, Father Boone went quietly into the rear room. Some one told Mrs. Daly that the priest was come, and she went to him at once. As soon as she saw Father Boone, she broke down. The priest had expected it. He had seen less devoted mothers become hysterical under such circumstance. He simply said nothing. He let her have her cry out. When it was over, he remarked, "That's good now; that cry will do you good." He spoke kindly, but very firmly. He knew that one little exhibition of his own feelings would start her all over again.
When she was composed, she said, "O, but Father, what lovely boys you have at the Club! Sure, they came in here in droves all the evening, and every one of them knelt down and said the rosary for Willie. It did my heart good. Forgive me, Father, for the cry I had. They gave me so much comfort, I thought I was altogether resigned to God's blessed will. But the sight of you, Father, brought the tears."