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.
"But you'll want to wear this in mourning for him," went on the scoutmaster. Now out of a pocket he took a wide, black, gauzy band. "On your left sleeve, Johnnie." And he pinned the band in place.
It was Johnnie's turn to be proud. "It'll show 'em all that he belonged t' me," he said.
"He did! He did!"
The letter came next. Mr. Perkins took it to the window to read it. "I'll get you a blank book," he announced when he came back, "and we'll paste the letter into it carefully, so that you can keep it always. And that book will be your best, Johnnie. Say, but that's a letter to treasure!"
"And there was somethin' else wonderful happened," the boy declared. And told about Edith Cavell. "She was jus' like she was alive! All in white. And white hair. Only I couldn't see where she'd been hit by the bullets."
"No, dear old fellow," returned Mr. Perkins. "That wasn't Edith Cavell. That was the trained nurse, or maybe a Sister of Mercy—anyhow, some one who was waiting on the Father."
"Oh!" To recall that which had moved and grieved and shocked made Johnnie's face so white that those fading marks showed plainly upon it. And there was a look of pain and strain in the gray eyes.
