it was undoubtedly his, for both sides of it bore
his name in Father Pat's own handwriting: _John Blake_.

He did not open it. He could not read it just yet. Thrusting it into a
coat pocket, he stumbled on. Had he complained and cried just because
Cis was to live in another part of this same city? Had he actually
thought the loss of a suit and some books enough to feel bad and bitter
about? Was it he who had said, after Cis went, that nothing worse could
happen?

Ah, how small, how trivial, all other troubles seemed as compared to
this new, strange, terrible thing--Death! And how little, before this,
he had known of genuine grief!

Now something really grievous had happened. And it seemed to him as if
his whole world had come suddenly tumbling down in pieces--in utter
chaos--about his yellow head.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE LETTER

"LAD DEAR, I was saying to myself the other day, 'Patrick Mungovan, when
you go home to God, what will you be leaving--you that haven't a red
cent to your name--to that mite of a boy, John?' 'Well,' Patrick
Mungovan answered back, 'to be truthful, I've nothing to leave but the
memory of a sweet friendship and, maybe, a letter.'

"So down I sat, and started this. Just at the beginning of it, where it
can help to ease any pain in your heart, let me say a word about my
going, for I want you to be happy always when you're thinking of me. So
believe what I say: though we can't sit and talk together, as we have,
still we'll never be parted. No! For the reason that I'll live on, not
only in the spirit, but also in that fine brain of yours! And whenever
you'll be wanting me, you'll think me with you, and there I'll be, never
a day older, never a bit less red-headed, or dear to your loving eyes.
So! We're friends, you and I, as long as memory lasts!

"Lad dear, I called you rich once. You didn't understand all I meant by
it, and I'm going to explain myself here. And I'll start the list of
your riches with this: though you've been shut in, and worked hard, and
fed none too well, and dressed badly, and cheated by Tom Barber out of
the smiles, and the decent words of praise, and the consideration and
politeness that's every child's honest due--in spite of all this, I say,
you've gone right on, ignoring what you couldn't help, learning what
you could, improving yourself, preserving your sense of humor (which is
the power to see what's funny in everything), and never letting your
young heart fo