“Aw, go on!” chorused the watchers.

“Thry, just,” urged Bridget, “an’ we’ll sing ’Onward, Christian Soldier’ to hearten ye up.”

Eight shrill voices piped out the tune; and Sandy, caught by its martial spirit, before he knew it was limping a circle about the beds, marking his trail with golden blossoms.  Luckily for Ward C, the nurse on duty during the dinner-hour was in the medical ward, with the door closed.  And when she came back to her listening post in the corridor the last word had been sung, the last flower dropped, and Sandy was in his cot again, stretching tired little legs under the covers.

Perhaps the geometrician, or the accurate-minded reader, will doubt whether the primrose ring was made at all—­seeing that the wall of Ward C cut off nearly thirty degrees of it.  But in the world of fancy geometrical accuracy does not hold; and the only important thing is believing that the ring has been made.  I have known of a few who could step inside the faery circle whenever they willed, and without a visible primrose about; but for most of us the blossoms are needed to make the enchantment.

This is one of the heritages that come to those who are lucky enough to dwell much in the world of fancy.  They can wish for things and possess them, and enjoy them without actually grasping them with their two hands and saying, “These are my personal belongings.”  Material things are rather a nuisance, on the whole, for they have to be dusted and kept in order, repatched or repainted; and if one wishes to carry them about there are always the bother of packing and the danger of losing.  But these other possessions are different—­they are with us wherever we go and whenever we want them—­to-day, to-morrow, or for eternity.

“If we had the wee red wishin’-cap,” said Bridget, thoughtfully, “we’d not have to be waitin’ for what’s likely to happen.  We could just wish ourselves into Tir-na-n’Og.”

“What’s that?” demanded Peter.

“Tis the place the faeries live in, an’ ‘tis in Irelan’.  Sure, ’tis easy gettin’ the cap,” continued Bridget, with conviction.  “All ye need do is to say afther me, ‘I wish—­I wish for the wee red cap,’ an’ ye have it.”

Bridget extended her hands, palms upward, and the others followed her example; and together they whispered:  “I wish—­I wish for the wee red cap.”

Immediately Bridget’s hands closed over a cubic inch of atmosphere, and she cried, exultantly, “Hold on to it tight an’ slip it on your head quick—­afore it gets from ye!”

Only seven pairs of hands obeyed—­Michael protested.

“I have nothinks got,” he said, disgustedly.

“Shut up!” And Bridget shook a menacing fist at him.  “He’s foolish entirely.  He thinks he hasn’t anythin’ foreby he can’t see it.  Now, all together, ‘We wish—­’”

“Can we go ’thout any clothes?” interrupted Susan.  “We’d feel awful queer in nightshirts.”