JOHNNIE could hear a fumbling outside in the hall, as if some one was going slowly to and fro, brushing a wall with gentle, uncertain hands. Cautiously he tiptoed to his own door and listened, his heart beating a little faster than the occasion warranted, this because he had just been scooting about the deck of the Hispaniola again with Jim Hawkins, eluding that terrible Mr. Hands; and he was still more or less close in to the shore of Treasure Island, rather than in New York City, and hardly able to realize that in the gloomy, old kitchen he was reasonably safe from a pirate's knife.

The noise in the hall traveled away from the Barber door to another on the same floor. Johnnie concluded that the Italian janitress was giving the dark passage its annual scrub. As he had no wish to exchange words with her, much preferring the society of the rash, but plucky, Jim, he stole back to the table, and once more projected himself half the world away.

Three days had passed since One-Eye's departure. They had been quiet days. Mrs. Kukor was still gone. Big Tom ventured forth from his self-imposed imprisonment only late at night. Cis and Mr. Perkins, save for a cheery greeting scribbled on a post card that pictured the Capitol at Washington, seemed utterly to have cut themselves off from the flat. As for Father Pat, of course he had not forgotten Johnnie, not forsaken a friend; nevertheless, there had been no sign of him.

But having again his seven beloved books (the two extra ones had arrived by parcel post), Johnnie had not fretted once. What time had he for fretting? He was either working—cooking, washing, ironing, cleaning, waiting on the longshoreman or the aged soldier, going out grandly in his scout uniform to fetch things from the grocer's, smartening Grandpa's appearance or his own—or else he was reading. And when he was reading, his world and all of its cares dropped magically away from him, and the clock hands fairly spun.

One-Eye bidden a brave good-by, one of Johnnie's first jobs had been the rearranging of Cis's closet room. Though he still felt that he could not take over for his own use the little place which was sacred to her, nevertheless he had considered it a fit and proper spot in which to enshrine his seven volumes. So he had set the dressing-table box back against the wall, straightened its flounces, and placed the books in a row upon this attractive bit of furniture, flanking them at one end with the lamp, at the other with the alarm clock. Then he named the tiny room the library.

The lamp was for use at night, so that he could prolong his hours of study and enjoyment, seated on his mattress which, folded twice, made a luxurious seat of just the right height to command a good view of Mr. Roosevelt. The clock, on the other hand, was for daylight use only. When he was seated at the kitchen table, an elbow at either side of a book, his head propped, and his spirit far away, the clock (having been set with forethought, but wound only one turn) sounded a soft, short tinkle for him, calling him from Crusoe's realm, or from those northern forests through which he followed after Heywood, or from China, from Treasure Island, from Caerleon; and warning him it was time to prepare Big Tom a meal.

The fumbling about the hall door began again. Next, the knob was turned, slowly and uncertainly, as if by a child. Once more cutting short that enthralling hunt for gold, Johnnie hurried back to the door and opened it—and looked into the beady, bright black eyes of an exceedingly old lady.

She had on a black dress which was evidently as old as herself, for in spots it was the same rusty color as the few faded hairs, streaked with gray, which showed from under her ancient headshawl. In one shaking hand she held a stout cane; in the other, a slip of paper. This latter she offered him. And he found written on it his own name and Barber's, also brief directions for locating the building in the area.

"What's this for?" asked Johnnie. "What d' y' want me t' do? I can't give y' anything 'cept a cup o' tea. I'm sorry, but I'm broke."

"Mm-mm-mm-mm," mumbled the old lady; then showing a double line of gums in a smile, she plucked at his sleeve. "Father Mmmmm!" she said again. "Ah-ha? ah-ha? ah-ha?" With each ah-a, she backed a step invitingly, and nodded him to come with her.

Father Mungovan! A shiver ran all down him. For instantly he knew why she had come. Running to the stove, he wet down the fire with some hot water out of the teakettle, put away his book, brought out his own quilt to cover Grandpa's knees, swiftly laid Big Tom's place at the table, cut some bread, made the tea, then knocked on the bedroom door to explain that supper was ready on the oilcloth, but that he had to go out.

If Barber made any reply or objection to that, Johnnie did not hear it. "Father Mungovan's sick?" he asked the old lady as he followed her, a step at a time, down the three flights.

"Sick," she assented, nodding the shawled head. "Ah-ha! ah-ha! ah-ha!"

She hobbled, and even on the level sidewalk her pace was slow. He tried to help her, but she would not have his hand under her elbow, pulling away from him, muttering, and pointing ahead with her stick.

"Where d' we go t'?" he asked, for it was in his mind to set off by himself at a run. However, he could not understand what she replied; and soon gave up trying, feeling that, after all, a boy who intended to be a scout should not leave such a weak, aged soul behind, all alone, but should stay to help her over the crossings. "I'm 'xac'ly like that picture in the Handbook!" he reminded himself.

But it was little assistance the old lady needed. At every crossing she went stumping boldly forward, her cane high in the air and shaken threateningly, while she looked neither to the right nor the left, paying no attention to on-coming vehicles, whether these were street-cars, motors or teams, only warning each and all with a piping "Ah-ha! ah-ha! ah-ha!"

People smiled at her. They smiled also, and admiringly, at the freshly uniformed, blond-haired boy scout striding beside her, whose face, by the fading marks upon it, indicated that lately he had accidentally bumped into something.

But Johnnie saw no one, so completely were his thoughts taken up. Of course Father Pat was sick. That was why he had not been back to the flat. Was there, the boy wondered, anything a scout could do for the beloved priest? Johnnie thought of all those instructions in the Handbook which concerned the aiding and saving of others. "Oh, I want t' help him!" he cried, and in his eagerness forged ahead of the old lady, whereupon she poked him sharply with the stick.

"Slow! Slow!" she ordered, breathing open-mouthed.

The distance seemed endless. Johnnie began to fear that he might not reach the Father before he died. "Oh, all that fightin' was bad for him!" he concluded regretfully. "That's what's the matter! It wore him out! I wish Mrs. Kukor didn't go for him! But, oh, he mustn't die! He mustn't! He mustn't!"

And yet that was precisely what Father Pat was about to do. When Johnnie had climbed the steps of a brownstone house and been admitted by a strange priest; and between long portiÈres had entered a high, dim room where there was a wide, white bed, he realized the worst at once. For even to young eyes that had never before looked upon death, it was plain that a great, a solemn, and a strangely terrible change had come into that revered, homely, kindly face. Its smile was not gone—not altogether; but still showed faintly around the big, tender Irish mouth. But, ah, the dear, red hair was wet with mortal sweat, and lay in thin, trailing wisps upon a brow uncommonly white.

Yes, Father Pat had been right; the bridges made for him by the elderly dentist "who needed the work" were to outlast the necessity for them. And the big, young, broad-shouldered soldier-priest was going out even before little, feeble, old Grandpa!

"Father Pat!" whispered the boy.

The green eyes, moving more slowly than was their wont, traveled inquiringly from place to place till they found their object, then fixed themselves lovingly upon Johnnie's face. Next, out stole a hand, feebly searching for another.

"Little—golden—thing!"

Ah, how hard he was breathing! "If I could jus' give him my breath!" thought Johnnie; "'r my lungs!" He took the searching hand, but turned his face away. There was a small, round table beside the bed. Upon it were some flowers in a glass, a prayer book, a rosary, a goblet of water, a fan. Mechanically he counted the things—over and over. He was dry-eyed. He felt not the least desire to weep. The grief he was enduring was too poignant for tears. It was as if he had been slashed from forehead to knees with a sword.

"I'm not actin' like a scout," he thought suddenly. And forced himself to turn again to that friend so heart-rendingly changed. Then aloud, and striving to speak evenly, "Father Pat, y're not goin' t' die, are y'? No, y're not goin' t' die!"

He felt his hand pressed. "Die?" repeated the Father, and Johnnie saw that there was almost a playful glint in the green eyes. "Shure, scout boy,"—halting with each word—"dyin's a thing we all come t', one time or another. Ye know, ev'ry year manny a man dies that's never died before."

"I couldn't have y' go," urged the boy. "Oh, Father Pat, Cis, she's gone, but I can stand it, 'cause she's happy. But you—you—you—!" Words failed him.

"Lad dear,"—and now the Father's look was grave and tender—"God's will be done."

"Oh, yes! I—I know. But, oh, Father Pat, promise me that—that y' won't—go far!"

"Ah!"—the dimming eyes suddenly swam in pity.

"Jus' t' the nearest star, Father Pat! Jus' t' the nearest star!"

"Little star lover!" Then after a pause for rest, "Johnnie, ye've loved Father Pat a good bit?"

"Oh, so much! So much!"

"And I've loved the little poet—the dreamer! And I've faith—in him—as I go."

Johnnie knelt—yes, the same Johnnie who had always felt so shy when any one spoke of God, or prayer, or being religious. How natural the act of kneeling was, now that he was face to face with this tragedy which no earthly power could avert! It was quite as the Father had once predicted: "Ah, when the day comes, lad dear, that ye feel bad enough, when grief fair strikes ye down, and there's nobody can help ye but God, then ye'll understand why men pray." Well, that day had come. Now everything was in His hands.

Yet Johnnie could not shape a prayer—could only beg dumbly for help as he clung to Father Pat's hand, and laid his cheek against it.

It was while he was kneeling that he saw, entering between those portiÈres, some one dressed in white—a woman. White she wore, too, upon the silky white of her hair. The snowy headdress framed a face pale, but beautiful, with the beauty that comes from service and self-sacrifice and suffering.

The instant Johnnie glimpsed that face, and looked into the sad, brave eyes, he knew her!—knew her though she wore no red cross upon her sleeve. Of course, among all the souls in the great universe, she would be the one to come now, just when he, Johnnie, needed the sight of her to make him more staunch!

He remembered how she had stood before the firing-squad, not shrinking from her fate, not crying out in terror of the cruel bullets. And now how poised she was, how fearless, in this room where Death was waiting! Awe-struck, adoring her, and scarcely daring to breathe lest she vanish, he got slowly to his feet.

"Edith Cavell!" he whispered.

"Edith—Cavell!" echoed Father Pat. "'Twas her dyin'—that helped—manny——"

"It's time to go," she said softly. "Tell the Father good-by."

Dutifully he turned to take that last farewell. But now that he had the martyred nurse at his side, he determined to endure the parting manfully. He knelt again, and tried to smile at the face smiling back at him from the pillow. He tried to speak, too, but his lips seemed stiff, for some reason, and his tongue would not obey. But he kept his bright head up.

He heard a whisper—Father Pat was commending this scout he loved to the mercy of a higher power. Next, he felt himself lifted gently and guided backward from the bed. He did not want to go. He wanted to keep on seeing, seeing that dear face, to hold on longer to that weak hand. "Oh, don't—don't take me!" he pleaded.

The dying eyes followed, oh, how affectionately, the small, khaki-clad figure. "God's—own—child!" breathed the priest, and there was tender pride in the faint tones. "God's—blessed—lad!"

"Father!"

Then the folds of the portiÈres brushed Johnnie's shoulders, and fell between his eyes and the wide, white bed.

He had taken his last look.

He was nearly home when he discovered the letter—a thick letter in a long envelope. It was in his hand, though he could not remember how it came to be there. But it was undoubtedly his, for both sides of it bore his name in Father Pat's own handwriting: John Blake.

He did not open it. He could not read it just yet. Thrusting it into a coat pocket, he stumbled on. Had he complained and cried just because Cis was to live in another part of this same city? Had he actually thought the loss of a suit and some books enough to feel bad and bitter about? Was it he who had said, after Cis went, that nothing worse could happen?

Ah, how small, how trivial, all other troubles seemed as compared to this new, strange, terrible thing—Death! And how little, before this, he had known of genuine grief!

Now something really grievous had happened. And it seemed to him as if his whole world had come suddenly tumbling down in pieces—in utter chaos—about his yellow head.