"Not what she has written you, I judge. One could hardly term our
communication 'the best thing that has happened in years.'" And again
a smile twitched at the corners of the President's mouth.
"Then listen to this." Margaret MacLean read the letter eagerly:
"DEAE MARGARET MACLEAN,--There is a home standing on a hilltop--an
hour's ride from the city. It belongs to a lonely old woman who finds
that it is too large and too lonely for her to live in, and too full of
haunting memories to be left empty. Therefore she wants to fill it
with incurable children, and she would like to begin with the discarded
ward of Saint Margaret's."
"That's a miserable way to speak of a lot of children," muttered the
Disagreeable Trustee; but no one paid any attention, and Margaret
MacLean went on:
"There is room now for about twenty beds; and annexes can easily be
added as fast as the need grows. This lonely old woman would consider
it a great kindness if you will take charge; she would also like to
have you persuade the House Surgeon that it is high time for him to
become Senior Surgeon, and the new home is the place for him to begin.
Together we should be able to equip it without delay; so that the
children could be moved direct from Saint Margaret's. It is the whim
of this old woman to call it a 'Home for Curables'--which, of course,
is only a whim. Will you come to see me as soon as you can and let us
talk it over?"
Margaret MacLean folded the letter slowly and put it back in its
envelope. "You see," she said, the little-girl look spreading over her
face--"you see, you mustn't take us back again. I could not possibly
refuse, even if I wanted to; it is just what the children have longed
for--and wished for--and--"
"We are not going to give up the ward; she would have to start her home
with other children." The Dominant Trustee announced it flatly.
Strangely enough, the faces of his fellow-directors corroborated his
assertion. Often the value of a collection drops so persistently in
the estimate of its possessor that he begins to contemplate exchanging
it for something more up to date or interesting. But let a rival
collector march forth with igniting enthusiasm and proclaim a desire
for the scorned objects, and that very moment does the possessor
tighten his grip on them and add a decimal or two to their value. So
was it with the trustees of Saint Margaret's. For the first time in
their lives they desired the incurable ward and wished to retain it.
"Not only do we intend to keep the children, but there are many
improvements I shall suggest to the board when there is more time. I
should like to insist on a more careful supervision of--curious
visitors." And the Oldest Trustee raised her lorgnette and compassed
the gathering with a look that challenged dispute.
Margaret MacLean's face became unaccountably old and tired. The vision
that had seemed so close, so tangible, so ready to be made actual, had
suddenly retreated beyond her reach, and she was left as empty of heart
and hand as she had been before. For a moment her whole figure seemed
to crumple; and then she shook herself together into a resisting,
fighting force again.
"You can't keep the children, after this. Think, think what it means
to them--a home in the country, on a hilltop, trees and birds and
flowers all about. Many of them could wheel themselves out of doors,
and the others could have hammocks and cots under the trees. Forget
for this once that you are trustees, and think what it means to the
children."
"But can't you understand?" urged the President, "we feel a special
interest in these children. They are beginning to belong to us--as you
do, yourself, for that matter."
The little-girl look came rushing into Margaret MacLean's face,
flooding it with wistfulness. "It's a little hard to believe--this
belonging to anybody. Yesterday I seemed to be the only person who
wanted me at all, and I wasn't dreadfully keen about it myself." Then
she clapped her hands with the suddenness of an idea. "After all, it's
the children who are really most concerned. Why shouldn't we ask them?
Of course I know it is very much out of the accustomed order of things,
but why not try it? Couldn't we?"
Anxiously she scanned the faces about her. There was surprise,
amusement, but no dissent. The Disagreeable Trustee smiled secretly
behind his hand; it appealed to his latent sense of humor.
"It would be rather a Balaam and his ass affair, but, as Miss MacLean
suggests, why not try it?" he asked.
Margaret MacLean did not wait an instant longer. She turned to the
House Surgeon. "Bring Bridget down, quickly."
As he disappeared obediently through the door she faced the trustees,
as she had faced them once before, on the day previous. "Bridget will
know better than any one else what will make the children happiest.
Now wouldn't it be fun"--and she smiled adorably--"if you should all
play you were faery godparents, for once in your lifetime, and give
Bridget her choice, whatever it may be?"
This time the entire board smiled back at her; somehow, in some strange
way, it had caught a breath of Fancy. And then--the House Surgeon
re-entered with Bridget in his arms, looking very scared until she
spied "Miss Peggie."
The President did the nicest thing, proving himself the good man he
really was. He crossed hands with the House Surgeon, thereby making a
swinging chair for Bridget, and together they held her while Margaret
MacLean explained:
"It's this way, dear. Some one has offered you--and all the
children--a home in the country--a home of your very own. But the
trustees of Saint Margaret's hardly want to give you up; they think
they can take as good care of you--and make you just as happy here."
"But--sure--they'll have to be givin' us up. Weren't we afther givin'
a penny to the wee one yondther for the home?" and Bridget pointed a
commanding finger toward the door.
Everybody looked. There on the threshold stood the widow of the
Richest Trustee.
"What do you mean, dear? How could you have given her a penny?"
Margaret MacLean asked it in bewilderment.
"'Twas all the doin's o' the primrose ring." And then Bridget shouted
gaily across to the gray wisp of a woman. "Ye tell them. Weren't ye
afther givin' us the promise of a home?"
"And haven't I come to keep the promise?" she answered, as gaily. But
in an instant she sobered as her eyes fell on the open letter on the
President's desk. "I am so sorry I wrote it--that is why I have come;
not that I don't think you deserved it, for you do," and the widow of
the Richest Trustee looked at them unwaveringly.
If she was conscious of the surprised faces about, she gave no sign for
others to reckon by. Instead, she walked the length of the board-room
to the President's desk and went on speaking hurriedly, as if she
feared to be interrupted before she had said all she had come to say.
"I wish I had written in another way, a more helpful way. Why not add
your second surgical ward to Saint Margaret's and do all the good work
you can, as you had planned? Only let me have these children to start
a home which shall be a future harbor for all the cases you cannot mend
with your science and which you ought not to set adrift. You can send
me all the convalescing children, too, who need country air and
building up. In return for this, and because you deserve to be
punished--just a little--for yesterday--I shall try my best to take
with me Margaret MacLean and your House Surgeon."
She laid a hand on both, while she added, softly: "Suppose we three go
home together and talk things over. Shall we?"
So the "Home for Curables" has come true. It crests a hilltop, and is
well worth the penny that Bridget gave for it. As the children
specified, there are no "trusters"; and it has all the modern
improvements, including Margaret MacLean, who is still "Miss Peggie,"
although she is married to their new Senior Surgeon.
There is one very particular thing about the Home which ought to be
mentioned. When the children arrived Toby was on the steps, barking a
welcome. No one was surprised; in fact, everybody acted as though he
belonged there. Perhaps the surprising thing would have been not
having the promise kept. Toby is allowed right of way, everywhere; and
rumor has it that he often sneaks in at night and sleeps on Peter's
bed. But, of course, that is just rumor.
The children are supremely happy; which means that no one is allowed to
cross the threshold who cannot give the password of a friend. And you
might like to know that many of the trustees of Saint Margaret's come
as often as anybody, and are always welcomed with a shout. The
President, in particular, has developed the habit of secreting things
in his pockets until he comes looking very bulgy.
Margaret MacLean always puts the children to sleep with Sandy's song;
she said it was written by a famous poet who loved children, and the
children have never told her the truth about it. And if it happens, as
it does once in a great while, that some one is missing in the morning,
there is no sorrowing for him, or heavy-heartedness. They miss him, of
course; but they picture him running, sturdy-limbed, up the slope to
the leprechaun's tree, with Michael waiting for him not far off.
To the children Tir-na-n'Og is the waiting-place for all child-souls
until Saint Anthony is ready to gather them up and carry them away with
him to the "Blessed Mother"; and Margaret MacLean, having nothing
better to tell them, keeps silent. But she has thought of the nicest
custom: A new picture is hung in the Home after a child has gone. It
bears his name; and it is always something that he liked--birds or
flowers or ships or some one from a story. Peter has his chosen
already; it is to be--a dog.
Whenever Saint Margaret's Senior Surgeon finds a hip or a heart or a
back that he can do nothing for, he sends it to the Home; and he always
writes the same thing:
"Here is another case in a thousand for you, Margaret MacLean. How
many are there now?"
He has married the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee, as the Disagreeable
Trustee prophesied, and gossip says that they are very happy. This
much I know--there are two more words which he now writes with
capitals--Son and Sympathy.
Margaret MacLean often says with the Danish faery-man: "My life, too,
is a faery-tale written by God's finger." And the House Surgeon always
chuckles at this, and adds:
"Praise Heaven! He wrote me into it."
As for the widow of the Richest Trustee, she has found a greater
measure of contentment than she thought the world could hold--with love
to brim it; for Margaret MacLean has adopted her along with the
children. The children still regard her, however, as a very mysterious
person; and she has taken the place of Susan's mythical aunt in the
ward conversation. It has never been argued out to the complete
satisfaction of every one whether she is really the faery queen or just
the "Wee Gray Woman," as Sandy calls her. The arguments wax hot at
times, and it is Bridget who generally has to put in the final
silencing word:
"Faith, she kept her promise, didn't she? and everything come thrue,
hasn't it? Well, what more do ye want?"