And so it came to pass that every member of the board of Saint Margaret’s Free Hospital for Children went home on May Eve with one of the faeries’ own flowers tucked somewhere about his or her person.  Moreover, they went home at precisely three minutes and twenty-two seconds past seven by the clock on the tower—­the astronomical time for the sun to go down on the 30th of April.  Crack went all the combination locks on all the faery raths, spilling the Little People over all the world; and creak went the gates of Tir-na-n’Og, swinging wide open for wandering mortals to come back.

As the trustees left the hospital the Senior Surgeon turned into the cross-corridor for his case, still gay with his Order of the Golden Primrose; and there, at the foot of the stairs, he ran into Margaret MacLean.  They faced each other for the merest fraction of a breath, both conscious and embarrassed; then she glimpsed the flower in his coat and a cry of surprise escaped her.

He smiled, almost foolishly.  “I thought they—­it—­looked rather pretty and—­spring-like,” he began, by way of explanation.  His teeth ground together angrily; he sounded absurd, and he knew it.  Furthermore, it was inexcusable of her to corner him in this fashion.

Now Margaret MacLean knew well enough that he would never have discovered the prettiness of anything by himself—­not in a century of springtimes, and she sensed the truth.

“Did she decorate you?” she inquired, with an irritating little curl of her lips.  The Senior Surgeon’s self-confessed blush lent speed to her tongue.  “I think I might be privileged to ask what it was for.  You see, I presented the flowers to the board meeting.  Was it for self-sacrifice?” Her eyes challenged his.

“You are capable of talking more nonsense and being more impertinent than any nurse I have ever known.  May I pass?” His eyes returned her challenge, blazing.

But she never moved; the mind-string once broken, there seemed to be no limit to the thoughts that could come tumbling off the end of her tongue.  Her eyes went back to the flower in his coat.

“Perhaps you would like to know that I bought those this morning because they seemed the very breath of spring itself—­a bit of promise and gladness.  I thought they would keep the day going right.”

“Well, they have—­for me.”  And the Senior Surgeon could not resist a look of triumph.

“The trustees”—­she drew in a quick breath and put out a steadying hand on the banisters—­“you mean—­they have given up the incurable ward?”

He nodded.  His voice took on a more genial tone.  He felt he could generously afford to be pleasant and patient toward the one who had not succeeded.  “It was something that was bound to happen sooner or later.  Can’t you see that yourself?  But I am sorry, very sorry for you.”

Suddenly, and for the first time in their long sojourn together in Saint Margaret’s, he became wholly conscious of the girl before him.  He realized that Margaret MacLean had grown into a vital and vitalizing personality—­a force with which those who came in contact would have to reckon.  She stood before him now, frozen into a gray, accusing figure.