"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 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.