She stood by the door, unnoticed, looking down the ward.  Pancho lay wound up in his blanket like a giant chrysalis, rolling in silent misery.  Sandy was stretched as straight and stiff as if he had been “laid out”; his eyes were closed, and there was a stolid, expressionless set to his features.  Margaret MacLean knew that it betokened much internal disturbance.  Susan, ex-philosopher, was sobbing aloud, pulling with rebellious fingers at the pieces of iron that kept her head where nature had planned it.  The Apostles gripped hands and moaned in unison, while Peter hugged his blanket, seeking thereby some consolation for the dispelled Toby.  Toby persistently refused to be conjured up on Trustee Days.

Only Bridget was alert and watchful.  One hand was slipped through the bars of Rosita’s crib, administering comforting pats to the rhythmic croon of an Irish reel.  Every once in a while her eyes would wander to the neighboring cots with the disquiet of an over-troubled mother; the only moments of real unhappiness or worry Bridget ever knew were those which brought sorrow to the ward past her power of mending.

To Margaret MacLean, standing there, it seemed unbearable—­as if life had suddenly become too sinister and cruel to strike at souls so little and helpless as these.  There were things one could never explain in terms of God.  She found herself wondering if that was why the Senior Surgeon worshiped science; and she shivered.

The room had become repellent; it was a sepulchral place entombing all she had lost.  In the midst of the dusk and gloom her mind groped about—­after its habit—­for something cheerful, something that would break the colorless monotone of the room and change the atmosphere.  In a flash she remembered the primroses; and the remembrance brought a smile.

“They’re nothing but charlatans,” she thought, “but the children will never find that out, and they’ll be something bright for them to wake up to in the morning.”

This was what sent her down the stairs again, just as the board meeting adjourned.

Now the board adjourned with thumbs down—­signifying that the incurable ward was no more, as far as the future of Saint Margaret’s was concerned.  The trustees stirred in their chairs with a comfortable relaxing of joint and muscle, as if to say, “There, that is a piece of business well despatched; nothing like methods of conservation and efficiency, you know.”  Only the little gray wisp of a woman by the door sat rigid, her hands still folded on her lap.

The Oldest Trustee had just remarked to the Social Trustee that all the things gossip had said of the widow of the Richest Trustee were undoubtedly true—­she was a nonentity—­when the Senior Surgeon dropped in.  This was according to the President’s previous request.  That gentleman of charitable parts had implied that there would undoubtedly be good news and congratulations awaiting him.  This did not mean that the board intended to slight its duty and fail to consider the matter of the incurables with due conscientiousness—­the board was as strong for conscience as for conservation.  It merely went to show that the fate of Ward C had been preordained from the beginning; and that the President felt wholly justified in requesting the presence of the Senior Surgeon at the end of the meeting.