she's kiddin' about; but, gee! don't he like it!"

As it happened the primroses did not get as far as Ward C then.
Margaret MacLean found the door of the board-room ajar, and, glancing
in, looked square into the eyes of the Founder of Saint Margaret's,
where he hung in his great gold frame--silent and questioning.

"If all the tales they tell about you are true, you must wonder what
has happened to Saint Margaret's since you turned it over to a board of
trustees."

She went in and stood close to him, smiling wistfully. "Perhaps you
would like me to leave you the primroses until after the meeting--they
would be sure to cheer you up; and they might--they might--" Laughing,
she went over to the President's desk and put the flowers in the green
Devonshire bowl.

She was sitting in the President's chair, coaxing some of the hoydenish
blossoms into place, when the House Surgeon looked in a moment later.

"Hello! What are you doing? I thought you detested this room." He
spoke in a teasing, big-brother way, while his eyes dwelt pleasurably
on the small gray figure in the President's chair. For, be it said
without partiality or prejudice, Margaret MacLean was beautiful, with a
beauty altogether free from self-appraisement.

"I do--I hate it!" Then she wagged her head and raised a significant
finger in perfect imitation of the flower-seller. "I am dabbling
in--magic. I am starting here a terrible and insidious campaign
against gloom."