“Aye, it does that, but there be’s somethin’ more.”

“Crutches,” suggested Pancho, tentatively.

“Aw, go on wid ye,” laughed Bridget.  “Ye’re ’way off.”  She paused a moment impressively.  “C means ‘cured.’ ‘Childher Cured,’ that’s what!  Now all we’ve got to do is to forget trusters an’ humps an’ pains an’ them disagreeable things, an’ think o’ somethin’ pleasant.”

“Ain’t nothin’ pleasant ter think of in er horspital,” wailed John, the present disheartenment clouding over all past happiness.

“Ain’t, neither,” agreed James.

“Aye, there be,” contradicted Sandy.  “Dinna ye ken the wee gray woman ‘at cam creepity round an’ smiled?”

“She was nice,” said Susan, with obvious approval.  “Do ye think, now, she might ha’ been me aunt?”

A chorus of positive negation settled all further speculation, while Bridget bluntly inquired.  “Honest to goodness, Susan, do ye think the likes o’ ye could belong to the likes o’ that?”

Pancho broke the painful silence by reverting to the original topic in hand.  “Mi’ Peggie pleasant too,” he suggested, smiling adorably.

“But we’ve not got either of ’em no longer, so they’re no good now,” Peter unfortunately reminded every one.

“Don’t ye know there be’s always somethin’ pleasant to think about if ye just hunt round a bit, an’ things an’ feelin’s never get that bad ye can’t squeeze out some pleasantment.  Don’t ye mind the time the trusters had planned to give us all paint-boxes for Christmas, an’ half of us not able to hold a brush, let alone paint things, an’ Miss Peggie blarneyed them round into givin’ us books?  Don’t ye mind?  Now we’ve got somethin’ pleasant here, right now—­” And Bridget smiled.

“What?”

“May Eve.”

“What’s that?”

“’Tain’t nothin’,” said Susan, sliding back disappointedly on her pillow.

“Sure an’ it is,” said Bridget; “it’s somethin’ grand.”

“’Tain’t nothin’,” persisted Susan, “but a May party in Cen’ral Park.  Every one takes somethin’ ter eat in a box, an’ the boys play ball an’ the girls dance round, an’ the cops let you run on the grass.  I knows all about it, fer my sister Katie was ‘queen’ onct.”

“We couldn’t play ball, ner run on the grass, ner anything,” said Peter, regretfully.

“’Tisn’t what Susan says at all,” said Bridget, by way of consolation.  “If ye’ll harken to me a minute, just, I’ll be afther tellin’ ye what it is.”

Ward C became instantly silent—­hopefully expectant; Bridget had led them into pleasant places too often for them not to believe in her implicitly and do what she said.

“May Eve,” began Bridget, slowly, “is the night o’ the year when the faeries come throopin’ out o’ the ground to fly about on twigs o’ thorn an’ dance to the music o’ the faery pipers.  They’re all dthressed in wee green jackets an’ caps, an’ ’tis grand luck to any that sees them.  And all the wishes good childher make on May Eve are sure to come thrue.”  She stopped a moment.  “Let’s make believe; let’s make believe—­” Her eyes fell on the primroses, and for the first time she recognized them.  “Holy Saint Bridget! them’s faery primroses!”