"'Tis the faeries' own day, afther all," chuckled the flower-seller as
he eyed the tiny gold disk in his palm; then he remembered, and called
after the diminishing figure of the nurse: "Hey, there! Mind what ye
do wi' them blossoms. They be's powerful strong magic." And he
chuckled again.

The hall-boy, shorn of uniform and dignity, was outside, polishing
brasses, when Margaret MacLean reached the hospital door. She stopped
for an interchange of grins and greetings.

"Mornin', Miss Peggie."

"Morning, Patsy."

He was "Patrick" to the rest of Saint Margaret's; no one else seemed to
realize that he was only about one-fifth uniform and the other fifths
were boy--small boy at that.

She eyed his work critically. "That's right--polish them well, Patsy.
They must shine especially bright to-day."

"Why, what's happenin' to-day?"

"Oh--everything, and--nothing at all."

And she passed on through the door with a most mysterious smile,
thereby causing Patsy to mentally comment:

"My, don't she beat all! More'n half the time a feller don't know what