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'
the middle to the wall yondther, 'twill be like enough."

With a doubtful eye Sandy spanned the distance. "Na--na. Gien a
hustled a wud be a dee'd loonie afore a had 'em spilled."

"Aw, go on!" chorused the watchers.

"Thry, just," urged Bridget, "an' we'll sing 'Onward, Christian
Soldier' to hearten ye up."

Eight shrill voices piped out the tune; and Sandy, caught by its
martial spirit, before he knew it was limping a circle about the beds,
marking his trail with golden blossoms. Luckily for Ward C, the nurse
on duty during the dinner-hour was in the medical ward, with the door
closed. And when she came back to her listening post in the corridor
the last word had been sung, the last flower dropped, and Sandy was in
his cot again, stretching tired little legs under the covers.

Perhaps the geometrician, or the accurate-minded reader, will doubt
whether the primrose ring was made at all--seeing that the wall of Ward
C cut off nearly thirty degrees of it. But in the world of fancy
geometrical accuracy does not hold; and the only important thing is
believing that the ring has been made. I have known of a few who could
step inside the faery circle whenever they willed, and without a
visible primrose about; but for most of us the blossoms are needed to
make the enchantment.

This is one of the heritages that come to those who are lucky enough to
dwell much in the world of fancy. They can wish for things and possess
them, and enjoy them without actually grasping them with their two
hands and saying, "These are my personal belongings." Material things
are rather a nuisance, on the whole, for they have to be dusted and
kept in order, repatched or repainted; and if one wishes to carry them
about there are always the bother of packing and the danger of losing.
But these other possessions are different--they are with us wherever we
go and whenever we want them--to-day, to-morrow, or for eternity.

"If we had the wee red wishin'-cap," said Bridget, thoughtfully, "we'd
not have to be waitin' for what's likely to happen. We could just wish
ourselves into Tir-na-n'Og."

"What's that?" demanded Peter.

"Tis the place the faeries live in, an' 'tis in Irelan'. Sure, 'tis
easy gettin' the cap," continued Bridget, with conviction. "All ye
need do is to say afther me, 'I wish--I wish