"Ye shut up, Michael! Who did ye ever hear say that?"

"Mine fader." And Michael spat in a perfect imitation thereof.

"Well, don't ye ever say it ag'in--do ye hear? Miss Peggie's American, and so's the House Surgeon, an' it's the next best thing to bein'

Irish--which every one can't be, the Lord knows. Now them trusters is heathen, an' they don't know nothin' more'n heathen, an' we ought to be easy on 'em for bein' so ignorant."

"They ken us 'll nae mair be gettin' weel," said Sandy, mournfully.

"Aw, ye're talkin' foolish entirely. What do ye think that C on the door means?"

A silence, significant of much brain-racking, followed.

"C stands for children," announced Susan, triumphantly.

"Aye, it does that, but there be's somethin' more."

"Crutches," suggested Pancho, tentatively.

"Aw, go on wid ye," laughed Bridget. "Ye're 'way off." She paused a moment impressively. "C means 'cured.' '_Childher Cured_,' that's what! Now all we've got to do is to forget trusters an' humps an'

pains an' them disagreeable things, an' think o' somethin' pleasant."

"Ain't nothin' pleasant ter think of in er horspital," wailed John, the present disheartenment clouding over all past happiness.

"Ain't, neither," agreed James.

"Aye, there be," contradicted Sandy. "Dinna ye ken the wee gray woman 'at cam creepity round an' smiled?"

"She was nice," said Susan, with obvious approval. "Do ye think, now, she might ha' been me aunt?"

A chorus of positive negation settled all further speculation, while Bridget bluntly inquired. "Honest to goodness, Susan, do ye think the likes o' ye could belong to the likes o' that?"

Pancho broke the painful silence by reverting to the original topic in hand. "Mi' Peggie pleasant too," he suggested, smiling adorably.

"But we've not got either of 'em no longer, so they're no good now,"

Peter unfortunately reminded every one.

"Don't ye know there be's always somethin' pleasant to think about if ye just hunt round a bit, an' things an' feelin's never get that bad ye can't squeeze out some pleasantment. Don't ye mind the time the trusters had planned to give us all paint-boxes for Christmas, an' half of us not able to hold a brush, let alone paint things, an' Miss Peggie blarneyed them round into givin' us books? Don't ye mind? Now we've got somethin' pleasant here, right now--" And Bridget smiled.

"What?"

"May Eve."

"What's that?"

"'Tain't nothin'," said Susan, sliding back disappointedly on her pillow.

"Sure an' it is," said Bridget; "it's somethin' grand."

"'Tain't nothin'," persisted Susan, "but a May party in Cen'ral Park.

Every one takes somethin' ter eat in a box, an' the boys play ball an'

the girls dance round, an' the cops let you run on the gra.s.s. I knows all about it, fer my sister Katie was 'queen' onct."

"We couldn't play ball, ner run on the gra.s.s, ner anything," said Peter, regretfully.

"'Tisn't what Susan says at all," said Bridget, by way of consolation.

"If ye'll harken to me a minute, just, I'll be afther tellin' ye what it is."

Ward C became instantly silent--hopefully expectant; Bridget had led them into pleasant places too often for them not to believe in her implicitly and do what she said.

"May Eve," began Bridget, slowly, "is the night o' the year when the faeries come throopin' out o' the ground to fly about on twigs o' thorn an' dance to the music o' the faery pipers. They're all dthressed in wee green jackets an' caps, an' 'tis grand luck to any that sees them.

And all the wishes good childher make on May Eve are sure to come thrue." She stopped a moment. "Let's make believe; let's make believe--" Her eyes fell on the primroses, and for the first time she recognized them. "Holy Saint Bridget! them's faery primroses!"

Ward C was properly impressed. Eight little figures sat up as straight as they could; eight pairs of eager eyes followed Bridget's pointing finger and gazed in speechless wonder at the green Devonshire bowl.

"Do ye think, Sandy, that ye could scrooch out o' bed an' hump yerself over to them? If Pether tries he's sure to tumble over, an' some one might hear."

Sandy looked at the flowers without enthusiasm. "Phat are ye wantin'

wi' 'em?"

"I'll tell ye when ye get there. Just thry; ye'll be yondther afore ye know it."

Cautiously Sandy rolled over on his stomach and pushed two shrunken little legs out from the covers. Putting them gingerly to the floor, he stood up, holding fast to the bed; then working his way from bed to bed, he reached the table at last, spurred on by Bridget's irresistible blarney:

"Sure ye're walkin' grand, Sandy. I never saw any one puttin' one leg past another smarther than what ye are. Ye'd fetch up to Aberdeen i'

no time if ye kept on at the pace ye are goin'."

Pride lies above pain; and Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.]

"Phat wull a do the noo?" he asked.

In the excitement Bridget had pulled herself to the foot of the cot; and there, eyes shining and cheeks growing pinker and pinker, she held her breath while the pleasantest thought of all shaped itself somewhere under the shock of red curls.

"Ye could never guess in a hundthred years what I was thinkin' this minute," she burst forth, ecstatically.

Eight mouths opened wide in antic.i.p.ated wonder; but no one thought of guessing.

"I'm thinkin'--I'm thinkin' we could make a primrose ring the night.

Is there any knowledgeable one among ye that knows aught of a primrose ring?"

Eight heads shook an emphatic negative.

"Aye, wasn't I sayin' so! Well, sure, a primrose ring is a faery ring; an' any one that makes it an' steps inside, wishin' a wish, is like to have anythin' at all happen them afore they steps out of it ag'in."

Eight breaths were drawn in and sighed out with the shivering delight that always accompanies that feeling which lies between fear and desire; likewise, eight delicious thrills zigzagged up eight cold little spines. Then Bridget shook a commanding finger at Sandy.

"Ye take them flowers out o' the pot an' dthrop them, one by one, till ye have the ground covered from the head of Pancho's bed to the tail o'

Michael's. 'Twon't make the whole of a ring, but if ye crook it out i'