The whole ward smiled again.  But in that moment Margaret MacLean remembered what the House Surgeon had said, and wondered.  Was she building up for them an ultimate discontent in trying to make life happy and full for them now?  Could not minds like theirs be taught to walk alone, after all?  And then she laughed to herself for worrying.  Why should the children ever have to do without her—­unless—­unless something came to them far better—­like Susan’s mythical aunt?  The children need never leave Saint Margaret’s as long as they lived, and she never should; and she passed on to the next cot, content that all was well.

As she stooped over the bed a pair of thin little arms flew out and clasped themselves tightly about her neck; a head with a shock of red curls buried itself in the folds of the gray uniform.  This was Bridget—­daughter of the Irish sod, oldest of the ward, general caretaker and best beloved; although it should be added in justice to both Bridget and Margaret MacLean that the former had no consciousness of it, and the latter took great care to hide it.

[Illustration:  As she stooped over the bed a pair of thin little arms flew out and clasped themselves tightly about her neck.]

It was Bridget who read to the others when no one else could; it was Bridget who remembered some wonderful story to tell on those days when Sandy’s back was particularly bad or the Apostles grew over-despondent; and it was Bridget who laughed and sang on the gray days when the sun refused to be cheery.  Undoubtedly it was because of all these things that her cot was in the center of Ward C.

Concerning Bridget herself, hers was a case of arsenical poisoning, slowly absorbed while winding daisy-stems for an East Broadway manufacturer of cheap artificial flowers.  She had done this for three years—­since she was five—­thereby helping her mother to support themselves and two younger children.  She was ten now and the Senior Surgeon had already reckoned her days.

In the shadow of Bridget’s cot was Rosita’s crib—­Rosita being the youngest, the most sensitive, and the most given to homesickness.  This last was undoubtedly due to the fact that she was the only child in the incurable ward blessed in the matter of a home.  Her parents were honest-working Italians who adored her, but who were too ignorant and indulgent to keep her alive.  They came every Sunday, and sat out the allotted time for visitors beside her crib, while the other children watched in a silent, hungry-eyed fashion.

Margaret MacLean passed her with a kiss and went on to Peter—­Peter—­seven years old—­congenital hip disease—­and all boy.

“Hello, you!” he shouted, squirming under the kiss that he would not have missed for anything.

“Hello, you!” answered back the administering nurse, and then she asked, solemnly, “How’s Toby?”

“He’s—­he’s fine.  That soap the House Surgeon give me cured his fleas all up.”