The Primrose Ring | Page 9

was a mythical relation of Susan's who lived
somewhere and who was supposed to turn up some day and claim
Susan with open arms. She was the source of many dreams and of

much interested conversation and heated argument in the ward, and the
children had her pictured down to the smallest detail of person and
clothes.
"No, 'tain't my aunt this time. I dreamt you was gettin' married, Miss
Peggie." And Susan giggled delightedly.
"An' goin' away?" This was groaned out in chorus from the two cots
following Susan's, wherein lay James and John--fellow-Apostles of
pain--bound closely together in that spiritual brotherhood. They were
sitting up, holding hands and staring at Margaret with wide,
anguish-filled eyes.
"Of course I'm not going away, little brothers; and I'm not going to get
married. Does any one ever get married in Saint Margaret's?"
The Apostles thought very hard about it for a moment; but as it had
never happened before, of course it never would now, and Miss Peggie
was safe.
The whole ward smiled again. But in that moment Margaret MacLean
remembered what the House Surgeon had said, and wondered. Was she
building up for them an ultimate discontent in trying to make life happy
and full for them now? Could not minds like theirs be taught to walk
alone, after all? And then she laughed to herself for worrying. Why
should the children ever have to do without her--unless--unless
something came to them far better--like Susan's mythical aunt? The
children need never leave Saint Margaret's as long as they lived, and
she never should; and she passed on to the next cot, content that all was
well.
As she stooped over the bed a pair of thin little arms flew out and
clasped themselves tightly about her neck; a head with a shock of red
curls buried itself in the folds of the gray uniform. This was
Bridget--daughter of the Irish sod, oldest of the ward, general caretaker
and best beloved; although it should be added in justice to both Bridget
and Margaret MacLean that the former had no consciousness of it, and
the latter took great care to hide it.
[Illustration: As she stooped over the bed a pair of thin little arms flew
out and clasped themselves tightly about her neck.]
It was Bridget who read to the others when no one else could; it was
Bridget who remembered some wonderful story to tell on those days
when Sandy's back was particularly bad or the Apostles grew

over-despondent; and it was Bridget who laughed and sang on the gray
days when the sun refused to be cheery. Undoubtedly it was because of
all these things that her cot was in the center of Ward C.
Concerning Bridget herself, hers was a case of arsenical poisoning,
slowly absorbed while winding daisy-stems for an East Broadway
manufacturer of cheap artificial flowers. She had done this for three
years--since she was five--thereby helping her mother to support
themselves and two younger children. She was ten now and the Senior
Surgeon had already reckoned her days.
In the shadow of Bridget's cot was Rosita's crib--Rosita being the
youngest, the most sensitive, and the most given to homesickness. This
last was undoubtedly due to the fact that she was the only child in the
incurable ward blessed in the matter of a home. Her parents were
honest-working Italians who adored her, but who were too ignorant and
indulgent to keep her alive. They came every Sunday, and sat out the
allotted time for visitors beside her crib, while the other children
watched in a silent, hungry-eyed fashion.
Margaret MacLean passed her with a kiss and went on to
Peter--Peter--seven years old--congenital hip disease--and all boy.
"Hello, you!" he shouted, squirming under the kiss that he would not
have missed for anything.
"Hello, you!" answered back the administering nurse, and then she
asked, solemnly, "How's Toby?"
"He's--he's fine. That soap the House Surgeon give me cured his fleas
all up."
Toby was even more mythical than Susan's aunt; she was based on
certain authentic facts, whereas Toby was solely the creation of a
dog-adoring little brain. But no one was ever inconsiderate enough to
hint at his airy fabrication; and Margaret MacLean always inquired
after him every morning with the same interest that she bestowed on
the other occupants of Ward C.
Last in the ward came Michael, a diminutive Russian exile with
valvular heart trouble and a most atrocious vocabulary. The one seemed
as incurable as the other. Margaret MacLean had wrestled with the
vocabulary on memorable occasions--to no avail; and although she had
long since discovered it was a matter of words and not meanings with
him, it troubled her none the less. And because Michael came the

nearest to being the black sheep of