"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.