and marched out of the board-room, slamming the door.

Behind the slammed door Margaret MacLean eyed the primroses
suspiciously. "I wonder--is your magic working all right to-day?
Please--please don't weave any charms against him, little faery people.
He is the only other grown-up person who has ever understood the least
bit; and I couldn't bear to lose him, too."

For the second time that morning she nestled her cheek against the
blossoms. Then the clock on the hospital tower struck eight. She
jumped with a start. "Time to go on duty." Once again her eyes met
the eyes of the Founder and sparkled witchingly. She raised high the
green Devonshire bowl from the President's desk as for a toast.

"Here's to Saint Margaret's--as you founded her; and the children--as
you meant them to be; and here's to the one who first understood!" She
turned from the Founder to the portrait hanging opposite, and bowed
most worshipfully to the Old Senior Surgeon.

II

IN WHICH MARGARET MACLEAN REVIEWS A MEMORY

As Margaret MacLean climbed the stairs to Ward C--she rarely took the
lift, it was too remindful of the time when she could not climb
stairs--her mind thought back a step for each step she mounted. When
she had reached the top of the first flight she was a child again, back
in one of the little white iron cribs in her own ward; and it was the
day when the first stringent consciousness came to her that she hated
Trustee Day.

The Old Senior Surgeon--the present one, of whom Saint Margaret's felt
inordinately proud, was house surgeon then--had come into Ward C for a
peep at her, and had called out, according to a firmly established
custom, "Hello, Thumbkin! What's the news?"

She had been "Thumbkin" to him ever since the night he had carried her
into the hospital, a tiny mite of a baby; and he had woven out of her
coming a marvelous story--fancy-fashioned. This he had told her at
least twice a week, from the time she was old enough to ask for it,
because it had popped into his head quite suddenly that this morsel of
humanity would some day insist on being accounted for.

The bare facts concerning her were rather shabby ones. She had been
unceremoniously dumped into his arms by a delegate from the Foundling
Asylum, who had found him the most convenient receptacle nearest the
door; and he had been offered the meager information that she belonged
to no one, was wrong somehow, and a hospital was the place for her.