"Tid-i-wats! Good land! Your blessed little claws are very sharp indeed," and, then, she'd often turn to Ruth and add, "I tell you Tid-i-wats is just as young and spry as she ever was ... no one would ever think how old she is if he could feel her claws."
When Estrella found that she was not alone, but had a family, and a loving, wealthy sister, old Mage was very glad indeed ... she'd found the girl a little in her way for many reasons; Ruth deferred to her a little, pitying her so much, and old Mage knew that if Ruth pitied anybody very much she might, in time, begin to love the person whom she put her tender pity on, and, then, to the old nurse, Estrella always brought up the memory of the man who had deceived her ... made her think him to be far better than he'd ever been ... and, so, altogether, Estrella's good fortune pleased old Mage in very many pleasant ways.
To say that Ruth was glad to have Estrella find her people was to put the case too lightly altogether; she was far too unselfish not to rejoice in her good fortune even though her going might mean great human loneliness for her: she had in her own inner consciousness a kind of spiritual and lasting strength on which she always leaned when outside companionship failed her in any way ... she never was alone although she often seemed to be so ... in fact, Ruth Wakefield often found herself to be alone among a crowd of human beings ... it seemed to her their many diverse thoughts disturbed the peace of mind she always longed to have ... her pity was so great ... her sympathy so broad ... and sorrows and sore trials are so common to the entire race of men and women ... that she seldom found much joy among the people whom she met; she gave most liberally to all she came in contact with ... she gave encouragement and comfort and sympathy and help ... but seldom did she find a human being who could give her anything at all for any length of time, at least:
"They come and they go," she often sadly said. "It seems to me that there is nothing steadfast in this world except the God on whom I always lean when all else fails me.... I wish I could find something strong enough to tie my faith to ... I wish I could ... it would be wonderful to know that I could always find good, solid ground beneath my human feet ... it would be wonderful to feel that nothing mattered between another human being and myself ... to feel that nothing, good or bad, could ever really change our feelings toward each other ... but I'd have to know for sure that it was so ..." she'd add, "I'd have to know for sure, I'd have to try it out somehow ... so many things have slipped away from me ... so very many things ... I'd have to know for sure, somehow, before I'd dare to trust too much."
While these personal matters were taking the attention of some of those within the shadowy hospital, Father Felix was undergoing an altogether different experience.
The good Priest had, more than once, covered the entire eight miles of entrenchments around Santiago on foot and with a heavy pack containing supplies on his broad back; during the time that elapsed between the naval battle of Santiago and the surrender of the city on Sunday, July 17, 1898, he had marched with his little flock of soldiers over many stony trails and through many miry passes, and, while the engagement itself was in progress, he had performed many heroic deeds and, more than once, he had fervently thanked God for his sturdy strength of arm and limb because he was thereby enabled to give material as well as spiritual aid to those who came within the reach of his hands; had anyone been watching a certain shady spot near Santiago on July 3, 1898, he might have witnessed a peculiar scene.
A rather short thick-set man, dressed as an army Chaplain and wearing a crucifix attached to a strong chain around his neck, was bending over one who lay there in the shade; he seemed to be examining the man to see if life remained in his body, and, yet, he always held the crucifix before the face of him who lay there as if he wished him to behold it, in case his earthly eyes should evermore see anything; he tried in every way he could to gain some recognition of his holy office from the man over whose earthly tenement he was then bending, but, as he did not succeed in this, he gently laid the crucifix upon the apparently pulseless breast, and went his way to find, perhaps, another one to whom he might administer the final consolation of the church whose dogmas he believed in.
The man he'd left behind him stirred uneasily, and, as he writhed and twisted there, the crucifix slid off his breast and fell upon the ground; it lay where it had fallen until Father Felix came again and brought with him another sufferer; he looked upon the breast of his first charge and did not see his crucifix ... it lay beneath the body of the one he'd left it with; he gently said:
"I left my crucifix with you, my Friend ... I thought it might be a consolation to you if you came to life again at all. I do not see the crucifix ... could anyone have taken it during my absence, I wonder?"
"I'm sure I don't know anything about your crucifix, good Sir," the man replied in a weak voice. "I have other things to fix my mind on than anything like that. For one thing, I am wounded and I need a surgeon more than I do Priests or crosses."