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.