JOHNNIE went through his regular duties in the flat, but he went through them in a daze. Whenever his work was done, he sat down. Then, his body quiet, his brain registered sounds—a far-off voice, the slam of a door, the creak of the stairs, whistles, bells. But his thoughts fixed themselves upon nothing. Aimlessly they moved from one idea to another, yet got nowhere, like chips on currentless water. If he remembered about Father Pat, that memory was dull—so dull that he could not recall the Father's face; and he did not even dream about him at night. He endured no suffering. As for his tears, they seemed to have dried up.

The truth was that, within the last week, he had had a great deal too much to bear, and was all but prostrated from shock. When that condition bettered, and he began to feel again, he was nervous and jumpy. In the night, the drip of a faucet, or the snap of a board, would set his heart to bounding sickeningly. And, even by day, every little while his body would shake inside that new uniform.

No Father Pat left in the world! The realization came next, and with it a suffocating sense of loss. His friend was gone, never to return, just as Johnnie's father and mother were gone, just as Aunt Sophie was gone. From the cupboard shelf he took down that bowl of rose leaves, and pondered over them. "Roses die," he told himself, "and people die." There was an end to everything.

"A dove," Cis had told him once, "if its feathers 're all pulled out, or it's got a lead shot in its breast, just the same it doesn't make a sound. It stands the pain." And that was how it was with Johnnie. He was wounded—sorely; but with quiet resignation he bore his anguish.

He began to do things outside his daily round of tasks. This followed a second reading of the letter, a reading which soothed and strengthened him, made him resolute, and awakened his habit of work. His first extra proceeding was the burning of the old, big clothes, by which he added their ashes to ashes far dearer; his second was the presenting of Edwarda to the little fire escape girl with the dark hair.

The new doll concealed in a pillowcase (he could not bear to crumple and tear for his purpose that precious marriage newspaper), he made his way to the door of the little girl's home. "This is yours," he told her, stripping off the case and holding out the gift. She heard him, but looked only at Edwarda. "Gratzia!" she gasped, seizing the doll in both hands. He lifted the scout hat, faced about, and marched home.

He found that he did not want to read anything but the letter—that he could not concentrate on story or star book. But he did not sit and tug at his hair. Action—he fairly craved it. And continued those out-of-the-ordinary jobs. The cupboard shelves had not been cleaned this long time. He scrubbed them, and turned Cis's fancifully scissored shelf-papers. He washed the chairs, including the wheeled one.

Each day, he worked till dark, then went to the roof. There, as he walked about, taking the air, he invariably thought about Cis. But that thought did not make him unhappy. She did not seem farther away than the Fifth Avenue bookstore, or Madison Square Garden. And he amused himself by trying to pick out the very roof under which she was, among all the roofs that stretched away and away toward the west and the north.

Soon he was down in the flat again, because he was physically tired, and ready for sleep. However, long before dawn he was awake once more, and watching the small, dark, ticking thing which was the clock he had formerly hated. Now of a morning it did not tick fast enough to suit him! When the light crept in, up he got, brushed his teeth and his uniform, took his bath and his exercises, dressed, and had a few minutes of outdoors across the window sill, where he re-read his letter, and remembered to be glad that he was living in the Land of Aladdin.

After that he ate an extra large helping of prunes, and put potatoes into the oven to bake. Then came good turns—Grandpa, Big Tom, the sparrows, and, yes, even Letitia, whose clothes he washed and ironed and mended. On the heels of the good turns, work again. "Lads don't get on by having things soft," and he would not live one soft day.

Thus, by degrees, he put together his shattered world.

One afternoon, as he sat stringing beads, he heard a familiar rap. Before he could reach the hall door, it opened, and there stood Mr. Perkins, looking happy, yet grave. He entered on tiptoe. He spoke low, as if not to disturb Big Tom.

"How are you, Johnnie?" holding out an eager hand.

"I'm all right."

"Narcissa sends her love."

How modest Mr. Perkins was!—he, the strongest man, almost, in the whole world! And how he lighted, and filled, the room! New life and hope and interest surged into Johnnie at the mere sight of him.

Mr. Perkins spoke of Father Pat. "We came the moment we heard," he explained. "The account of his death was in the papers." He had a newspaper with him, and spread it out upon the table. "The Father gave his life for his country," he added proudly, "so they gave him a military funeral. It's told about right here. Would you like—that is, could you bear to read about it?"

Johnnie could not; instead, he opened the drawer of the table and slipped the paper out of sight along with that other one—and the tooth.

"But you'll want to wear this in mourning for him," went on the scoutmaster. Now out of a pocket he took a wide, black, gauzy band. "On your left sleeve, Johnnie." And he pinned the band in place.

It was Johnnie's turn to be proud. "It'll show 'em all that he belonged t' me," he said.

"He did! He did!"

The letter came next. Mr. Perkins took it to the window to read it. "I'll get you a blank book," he announced when he came back, "and we'll paste the letter into it carefully, so that you can keep it always. And that book will be your best, Johnnie. Say, but that's a letter to treasure!"

"And there was somethin' else wonderful happened," the boy declared. And told about Edith Cavell. "She was jus' like she was alive! All in white. And white hair. Only I couldn't see where she'd been hit by the bullets."

"No, dear old fellow," returned Mr. Perkins. "That wasn't Edith Cavell. That was the trained nurse, or maybe a Sister of Mercy—anyhow, some one who was waiting on the Father."

"Oh!" To recall that which had moved and grieved and shocked made Johnnie's face so white that those fading marks showed plainly upon it. And there was a look of pain and strain in the gray eyes.

"I'm afraid you've been alone too much," said the scoutmaster anxiously.

"Maybe. Still, y' remember, Robinson Crusoe, he was, too, for a long time, but it all turned out fine for him."

"Things are turning out better for you right now," asserted Mr. Perkins. "To begin with, Narcissa and I have worked out a plan that will make it possible for you to leave here to-morrow."

"Leave?" But Johnnie did not yet comprehend what the other meant.

"Yes, for good and all," added the scoutmaster. "Go away—just as Narcissa has gone—to stay."

Johnnie wavered to his feet dizzily. "Me—go," he repeated. "Away—to stay." Then as the full meaning of it swept over him, "Oh, Mister Perkins! Oh! Oh!" That old, dear dream of his—to put behind him the ugly, empty, sunless flat: the tiring, hateful, girl's work: the fear, the mortification, the abuse, the wounded pride, and, yes, Big Tom: to go, and stay away, never, never coming back—that dream had suddenly come true!

Leaning on the table, weak from the very excitement and joy of it, slowly he looked around the kitchen. "My!" he breathed. "My!"

"The Carnegie money is ready for you now," Mr. Perkins went on. "I went to Pittsburgh to see about it."

"It is? Father Pat, he says in the letter that I'm rich. But he didn't count in that Carnegie money at all."

"You can go to a good school," continued the scoutmaster; "and have the books and clothes that you need. Before school starts, there's the country—you ought to go into it for a few weeks, then to the seashore. Of course, when vacation is over, Narcissa and I want you to live with us. There's a room all ready for you.—Johnnie, you're holding your breath! Don't! It isn't good for you."

Half-laughing, half-crying, Johnnie bent his head to the table. "Oh, gee!" he gasped. "School! And new books! And the country! And the beach! And then with both of you! And my own room!"

"And a bed—not the floor."

Johnnie was seeing it all. But particularly was the vision of his new home clear to him. "I'll take my father's medal with me, too," he declared; "and Mister Roosevelt's pitcher. Oh, it's goin' t' be fine! Fine! And I'll be ready, Mister Perkins! I'll be ready earl——"

Tap! tap! tap! tap!

He straightened; and stood as rigid as a little statue; and once more he held his breath. While the flushed and happy look on his face faded—faded as did his vision of peace and happiness and luxury. He stared wide-eyed at Mr. Perkins, questioning him dumbly, pathetically. Then every atom of strength began to leave him. It went out of his ankles, under those smart and soldierly leggings; and out of his knees. Slowly, and with a wobble, he sank into his chair.

Old Grandpa!

Now another picture: the dark, little, dismal flat, locked from the outside, deserted within; on the kitchen table, where Big Tom's breakfast dishes are strewn about, is the milk bottle and a cup; the beds are unmade, the sink piled high, and circling the unswept floor wheels Grandpa, whimpering, calling softly and pleadingly, "Johnnie! Little Johnnie! Grandpa wants Johnnie!" And tears are dimming the pale, old eyes, and trickling down into the thin, white beard.

"Oh!" breathed the boy. Old Grandpa forsaken! He, so dear, so helpless! Old Grandpa, who depended upon his Johnnie! And—what of that "kind of love that all sound young hearts give to the crippled and the helpless?"

He began to whisper, hastily, huskily: "That time I run away and met One-Eye, I felt pretty bad when I was layin' awake in the horse stall—so bad I hurt, all inside me. And in the night I 'most cried about Grandpa, and how he was missin' me."

"I see."

"And, oh, Mister Perkins, that was before I knew anything about scouts. But, now, I am one, ain't I? And so I got t' act like a scout. And a scout, would he go 'way and leave a' old soldier? I got t' think about that." He began to walk. Presently, he halted at the door of the tiny room, and looked in, then came tiptoeing back. "He's in there," he explained. "He went in t' see if Cis wasn't home yet, and he fell asleep. He misses her a lot, and she wasn't here much when he was awake. But that jus' shows how he'd miss me."

Before the scoutmaster could reply, Johnnie went on again: "I'm thinkin' ahead, the same way I think my thinks. When y're ahead, why, y' can look back, can't y'?—awful easy! Well, I'm lookin' back, and I can see Grandpa alone here. And it's a' awful mean thing t' see, Mister Perkins—gee, it is! And I'd be seein' it straight right on for the rest of my life!"

"But I wouldn't have old Grandpa left alone here," protested Mr. Perkins. "You see, there are institutions where they take the best care of old people—trained care, and suitable food, and the attention of first-class doctors. In such places, many old gentlemen stay."

"But Grandpa, would he know any of the other old gentlemen?"

"He would soon."

Johnnie shook his head. "He'd feel pretty bad if he didn't have me."

"You could go to see him often."

"He'd cry after me!" urged Johnnie. "And go 'round and 'round in circles. Y' see, he's used t' me, and if I was t' let him go t' that place, he'd miss me so bad he'd die!"

Mr. Perkins looked grave. "Narcissa and I would be only too glad to have him with us," he said, "but his son wouldn't let us."

"Big Tom wouldn't let Grandpa go away nowheres," asserted Johnnie. "I'm sure o' that. Why, Grandpa's the only person Big Tom cares a snap about! And if Grandpa stays here, and Big Tom's sure t' keep him, why, o' course, he can't stay—alone." He paused; then, "No, he can't stay alone." Perhaps never again in all his life would he meet a temptation so strong as this one—as hard to resist. "My! what'll I do?" he asked. "What'll I do?"

"You must decide for yourself," said Mr. Perkins. How he felt, Johnnie could not tell. The face of the scoutmaster was in the shadow, and chiefly he seemed taken up with the polishing of his pince-nez.

"Y' know, I thank y' awful much," Johnnie declared, "for plannin' out 'bout me goin' and—and so on."

"You're as welcome as can be!"

Johnnie drew those yellow brows together. "I wonder what Mrs. Kukor would think I ought t' do," he continued. "And—and what would Mister Roosevelt do if he was me? And that boss of all the Boy Scouts——"

"General Sir Baden-Powell."

"Yes, him. What would he think about it, I wonder? And then Edith Cavell, what would she say?"

Mr. Perkins went on with his polishing.

"Father Pat, he said somethin' once t' me about the way y' got t' act if y' ever want t' be happy later on, and have folks like y'. Oh, if only the Father was alive, and knew about it! But maybe he does know! but if he don't, anyhow God does, 'cause God knows ev'rything, whether y' want Him to or not. My! I wouldn't like t' have God turn against me! I'd—I'd like t' please God."

Still the scoutmaster was silent.

"You heard about my father, didn't y', Mister Perkins?" Johnnie asked presently. "He wouldn't be saved if my mother couldn't be, and jus' stayed on the ice with her, and held her fast in his arms till—till——" How clearly he could see it all!—his father, his feet braced upon the whirling cake, with that frailer body in his arms, drifting, drifting, swift and sure, toward destruction, but going to his death with a wave of the hand. His father had laid down his life; but his son would have to lay down only a small part of his.

"It didn't take my father long t' make up his mind about somethin' hard," Johnnie said proudly.

"No."

"Well, then, bein' his boy, I'd like t' act as—as fine as I can."

He pressed his lips tight together. He still felt his lot a bitter one in the flat; he still yearned to get away. But during these last few months a change had come over him—in his hopes, his aspirations, his thinks—a change fully as great as the change in his outward appearance. In a way, he had been made over, soul as well as body, that by taking in, by a sort of soaking process, certain ideas—of honor, duty, self-respect, unselfishness, courage, chivalry. And whereas once his whole thought had been to go, go, go, now he knew that those certain ideas were much more important than going. Also, there were the Laws. One of these came into his mind now—the first one. It came in a line of black letters which seemed to be suspended in the air between him and Mr. Perkins: A scout is trustworthy.

The moment he saw that line he understood what he would do. This new-old tempting dream, he would give it up.

"Mister Perkins," he began again, "I can't go 'way and leave old Grandpa here alone. I'm goin' t' stay with him till he dies, jus' like my father stayed with my mother. Yes, I must keep with Grandpa. He's a cripple, and he's old, and—he's a baby." His jaw set resolutely.

And then—having decided—what a marvelous feeling instantly possessed him! What peace he felt! What happiness! What triumph! He seemed even taller than usual! And lighter on his feet! And, oh, the strength in his backbone! in those lead-pipe legs! (Though he did not know it, that look which was all light was on his face, while his mouth was turned up at both ends like the ends of the Boy Scout scroll.)

"I'm not terrible bad off here no more," he went on. "I got this suit, and my books, and One-Eye's quart o' milk. Also, Mrs. Kukor, she'll be back 'fore long, and you'll bring Cis home t' see me, won't y'?"

"I will."

"Things'll be all right. Evenin's, I'm goin' t' night school, like Mister Maloney said. And all the time, while I'm learnin', and watchin' out for Grandpa, why, I'll be growin' up—nobody can stop me doin' that."

Tap! tap! tap! tap!—the wheel chair was backing into sight at the door of the tiny room.

Johnnie began to whisper: "Don't speak 'bout Cis, will y'? It'd make him cry."

Grandpa heard the whispering. He looked round over a shoulder, his pale eyes searching the half-dark kitchen. "Johnnie, what's the matter?" he asked, as if fearful. "What's the matter?"

Johnnie went to him, walking with something of a swagger. "Nothin's the matter!" he declared stoutly. "What y' talkin' 'bout? Ev'rything's fine! Jus' fine!"

The frightened look went out of the peering, old eyes. Grandpa broke into his thin, cackling laugh. "Everything's fine!" he cried. He shook a proud head. "Everything's fine!"

Johnnie pulled the chair over the sill, this with something of a flourish. Then, facing it about, "Here's Mister Perkins come t' see y'," he announced, and sent the chair rolling gayly to the middle of the room, while Grandpa shouted as gleefully as a child, and swayed himself against the strand of rope that held him in place.

"Niaggery! Niaggery!" he begged.

"Sh! sh! Mister Barber's asleep!"

"Sh! sh!" echoed the old man. "Tommie's asleep! Tommie's asleep! Tommie's asleep! That's what I always say to mother. Tommie's asleep!"

Johnnie came to the wheel chair. Then, for the first time in all the years he had spent in the flat, the tender love he felt for Grandpa fairly pulled his young arms about those stooped old shoulders; and he dropped his yellow head till it touched the white one. Tears were in his eyes, but somehow he was not ashamed of them.

Grandpa, mildly startled by the unprecedented hug, and the feel of that tousled head against his, stared for a moment like a surprised infant. Then out went his arms, hunting Johnnie; and the simple old man, and the boy who loved him past a great temptation, clung together for a long moment.

If there are occasions, as Father Pat and Mr. Perkins had once agreed there were, when it was proper for a good scout to cry, Johnnie now understood that there are occasions when good scoutmasters may also give way to their feelings. For without a doubt, Mr. Perkins, grown man and fighter though he was (and a husband to boot!), was weeping—and grinning with all his might as he wept! It was a proud grin. It set all his teeth to flashing, and lifted his red-brown cheeks so high that his pince-nez was dislodged, and went swinging down to tinkle merrily against a button of his coat; and his brimming eyes were proud as he fixed them upon Johnnie.

"Great old scout!" he said.

When Grandpa had had a glass of milk, and been trundled gently to and fro a few times, Johnnie stowed him away near the window. "He ain't much trouble, is he?" he asked, carefully tucking the feeble old hands under the cover. He nodded at the sleeping veteran, sunk far down into his blanket, his white head, with its few straggling hairs, tipped sidewise against the tangled, brown head of Letitia.

"No," answered Mr. Perkins. "And you're going to be glad, Johnnie, when the day comes that Grandpa closes his eyes for the last time, that you decided to do your duty. And you'll never have anything selfish or sad or mean to try to forget." He held out his hand and gave Johnnie's fingers a good grip.

With Mr. Perkins gone home to Cis, Johnnie stayed beside the wheel chair. Those yellow-gray eyes were still burning with earnestness, and the bright head, haloed by its hair, was held high. Dusk had deepened into dark. As he looked into the shadows by the hall door, he seemed to see a face—his father's. A moment, and he saw the whole figure, as if it had entered from the hall. It was supporting that other, and more slender, figure.

"I'm your son," he told them. "I'm twelve, and I know what y' both want t' see me do. It's stick t' my job. It'll be awful hard sometimes, and I'll hate it. But I'm goin' t' try t' be jus' as brave as you was."

It seemed to him that his father smiled then—a pleased, proud smile.

At that, Johnnie straightened, his heels came together, and he brought his left arm rigidly to his side. Then he lifted his right to his forehead—in the scout salute.

THE END