The Primrose Ring | Page 6

of them; and one told the other all about me."
This was the end of the story, and the beginning of Trustee Days for Margaret MacLean.
She soon made the discovery that she was not the only child in the ward who felt about it that way. Her discovery was a matter of intuition rather than knowledge; for--as if by silent consent--the topic was carefully avoided in the usual ward conversation. One does not make it a rule to talk about the hobgoblins that lurk in the halls at night, or the gray, creeping shapes that come out of dark corners and closets after one has gone to bed, if one is so pitifully unfortunate as to possess these things in childhood. Instead one just remembers and waits, shivering. Only to old Cassie, the scrub-woman, who was young Cassie then, did she confide her fear. From her she received a charm--compounded of goose eggshells and vinegar--which Cassie claimed to be what they used in Ireland to unbewitch changelings. She kept the charm hidden for months under her pillow. It proved comforting, although absolutely ineffectual.
And for months there had been a strained relationship between the Old Senior Surgeon and herself, causing them both much embarrassment. She resented the story he had made for her with all her child soul; he had cheated her--fooled her. She felt much as we felt toward our parents when we made our first discovery concerning Santa Claus.
But after a time--a long time--the story came to belong to her again; she grew to realize that the Old Senior Surgeon had told it truthfully--only with the unconscious tongue of the poet instead of the grim realist. She found out as well that it had done a wonderful thing for her: it had turned life into an adventure--a quest upon which one was bound to depart, no matter how poorly one's feet might be shod or how persistently the rain and wind bit at one's marrow through the rags of a conventional cloak. More than this--it had colored the road ahead for her, promising pleasant comradeship and good cheer; it would keep her from ever losing heart or turning back.
A day came at last when she and the Old Senior Surgeon could laugh--a little foolishly, perhaps--over the child-story; and then, just because they could laugh at it and feel happy, they told it together all over again. They made much of Thumbkin's christening feast, and the gifts the good godmothers brought.
"Let me see," said the Old Senior Surgeon, cocking his head thoughtfully, "there was the business-like little party on a broomstick, carrying grit--plain grit."
"And the next one brought happiness--didn't she?" asked little Margaret MacLean.
He nodded. "Of course. Then came a little gray-haired faery with a nosegay of Thoughts-for-other-folks, all dried and ready to put away like sweet lavender."
"And did the next bring love?"
Again he agreed. "But after her, my dear, came a comfortable old lady in a chaise with a market-basket full of common-sense."
"And then--then-- Oh, couldn't the one after her bring beauty? Some one always did in the book stories. I think I wouldn't mind the back and--other things so much if my face could be nice."
Margaret MacLean, grown, could remember well how tearfully eager little Margaret MacLean had been.
The Old Senior Surgeon looked down with an odd, crinkly smile. "Have you never looked into a glass, Thumbkin?"
She shook her head.
Children in the wards of free hospitals have no way of telling how they look, and perhaps it is better that way. Only if it happens--as it does sometimes--that they spend a good share of their life there, it seems as if they never had a chance to get properly acquainted with themselves.
For a moment he patted her hand; after which he said, very solemnly: "Wait for a year and a day--then look. You will find out then just what the next faery brought."
Margaret MacLean had obeyed this command to the letter. When the year and a day came she had been able to stand on tiptoe and look at herself for the first time in her life; and she would never forget the gladness of that moment. It had appeared nothing short of a miracle to her that she should actually possess something of which she need not be ashamed--something nice to share with the world. And whenever Margaret MacLean thought of her looks at all, which was rare, she thought of them in that way.
She took up the memory again where she had dropped it on the second flight of stairs, slowly climbing her way to Ward C, and went on with the story.
They came to the place where Thumbkin was pricked by the wicked faery with the sleeping-thorn and put to sleep for a hundred years, after the fashion of many another story princess; and the Old