The Primrose Ring | Page 3

I can
carry." She looked up quizzically at the flower-seller. "Now how did
you ever happen to think of bringing these--to-day?"
A pair of watery old eyes twinkled, thereby becoming amazingly young
in an instant, and he wagged his head mysteriously while he raised a
significant finger. "Sure, wasn't I knowin', an' could I be afther bringin'
anythin' else? But the rest that passes--or stops--will see naught but
yellow flowers in a basket, I'm thinkin'." And the flower-seller set to
shaking his head sorrowfully.
"Perhaps not. There are the children--"
"Aye, the childher; but the most o' them be's gettin' too terrible wise."
"I know--I know--but mine aren't. I'm going to take my children back
as many as I can carry." She stretched both hands about a mass of
stems--all they could compass. "See"--she held up a giant bunch--"so
much happiness is worth a great deal. Feel in the pocket of my apron
and you will find--gold for gold. It was the only money I had in my
purse. Keep it all, please." With a nod and a smile she left him, dancing
her way back along the still deserted street.
"'Tis the faeries' own day, afther all," chuckled the flower-seller as he

eyed the tiny gold disk in his palm; then he remembered, and called
after the diminishing figure of the nurse: "Hey, there! Mind what ye do
wi' them blossoms. They be's powerful strong magic." And he chuckled
again.
The hall-boy, shorn of uniform and dignity, was outside, polishing
brasses, when Margaret MacLean reached the hospital door. She
stopped for an interchange of grins and greetings.
"Mornin', Miss Peggie."
"Morning, Patsy."
He was "Patrick" to the rest of Saint Margaret's; no one else seemed to
realize that he was only about one-fifth uniform and the other fifths
were boy--small boy at that.
She eyed his work critically. "That's right--polish them well, Patsy.
They must shine especially bright to-day."
"Why, what's happenin' to-day?"
"Oh--everything, and--nothing at all."
And she passed on through the door with a most mysterious smile,
thereby causing Patsy to mentally comment:
"My, don't she beat all! More'n half the time a feller don't know what
she's kiddin' about; but, gee! don't he like it!"
As it happened the primroses did not get as far as Ward C then.
Margaret MacLean found the door of the board-room ajar, and,
glancing in, looked square into the eyes of the Founder of Saint
Margaret's, where he hung in his great gold frame--silent and
questioning.
"If all the tales they tell about you are true, you must wonder what has
happened to Saint Margaret's since you turned it over to a board of
trustees."
She went in and stood close to him, smiling wistfully. "Perhaps you
would like me to leave you the primroses until after the meeting--they
would be sure to cheer you up; and they might--they might--" Laughing,
she went over to the President's desk and put the flowers in the green
Devonshire bowl.
She was sitting in the President's chair, coaxing some of the hoydenish
blossoms into place, when the House Surgeon looked in a moment
later.
"Hello! What are you doing? I thought you detested this room." He

spoke in a teasing, big-brother way, while his eyes dwelt pleasurably
on the small gray figure in the President's chair. For, be it said without
partiality or prejudice, Margaret MacLean was beautiful, with a beauty
altogether free from self-appraisement.
"I do--I hate it!" Then she wagged her head and raised a significant
finger in perfect imitation of the flower-seller. "I am dabbling
in--magic. I am starting here a terrible and insidious campaign against
gloom."
The House Surgeon looked amused. "You make me shiver, all right;
but I haven't the smallest guess coming. Would you mind putting it into
scientific American?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't. But I can make a plain statement in prose--this is
Trustee Day."
"Hell!" The House Surgeon walked over to the calendar on the desk to
verify the fact. "Well, what are you going to do about it?"
Margaret MacLean spread her hands over the primroses, indicatively.
"I told you--magic." She wrinkled up her forehead into a worrisome
frown. "Let me see; I counted them, up last night, and I have had two
hundred and twenty-eight Trustee Days in my life. I have tried about
everything else--philosophy, Christianity, optimism, mental sclerosis,
and missionary fever; but never magic. Don't you think it
sounds--hopeful?"
The House Surgeon laughed. "You are the funniest little person I ever
knew. On duty you're as old as Methuselah and as wise as Hippocrates,
but the rest of the time I believe your feet are eternally treading the nap
off antique wishing-carpets. I wonder how many you've worn out. As
for that head of yours, it bobs like a penny balloon among the