into her treasure-store and scatters it broadcast. On this last day of
April she was prodigal with her sunshine; out countryward she garnished
every field and wood and hollow with her best. Everywhere were flowers
and pungent herby things in such abundance that even the city folk
could sense them afar off.

Little cajoling breezes scuttled around corners and down
thoroughfares, blowing good humor in and bad humor out. Birds of
passage--song-sparrows, tanagers, bluebirds, and orioles--even a pair
of cardinals--stopped wherever they could find a tree or bush from
which to pipe a friendly greeting. Yes, spring certainly could not
have begun the day better; it was as if everything had said to itself,
"We know this is a very special occasion and we must do our share in
making it fine."

So well did everything succeed that Margaret MacLean was up and out of
Saint Margaret's a full half-hour earlier than usual, her heart singing
antiphonally with the birds outside. Coatless, but capped and in her
gray uniform, she jumped the hospital steps, two at a time, and danced
the length of the street.

Now Margaret MacLean was small and slender, and there was nothing
grotesque in the dancing. It had become a natural means of expressing
the abundant life and joyousness she had felt ever since she had been
free of crutches and wheeled chairs; and an impartial stranger, had he
been passing, would have watched her with the same uncritical delight
that he might have bestowed on any wood creature had it suddenly
appeared darting along the pavement. She reached the corner just in
time to bump into the flower-seller, who was turning about like some
old tabby to settle himself and his basket.