"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?"