rumple and
tear for his purpose that precious marriage newspaper), he made his way
to the door of the little girl's home. "This is yours," he told her,
stripping off the case and holding out the gift. She heard him, but
looked only at Edwarda. "_Gratzia!_" she gasped, seizing the doll in
both hands. He lifted the scout hat, faced about, and marched home.

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."

"Narc