Thus it ended. There the hand of that faithful friend had stopped. But below the name, separated from it and the body of the letter, was a short paragraph which was a prayer: "I entreat the Saints to watch over him, to guard him and keep him all the days of his life, and when that life is ended, to bring him in joyful safety to the feet of Almighty God." CHAPTER XL "THE TRUE WAY" 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.