No; she had made up her mind some hours before that she should slip away in the morning without saying anything to the House Surgeon.  It would make it so much easier for him.  Otherwise—­he might—­because of his friendship—­say or do something he would have to regret all his life.  She had been very much in earnest when she had told the Senior Surgeon on the stairs that such as she laid no claim to the every-day happiness that felt to the lot of others.  That was why she had kept persistently out of the House Surgeon’s way all the evening.

She pushed back the door of Ward C. The night light in the hall outside was shaded; only a glimmer came through the windows from the street lamps below; consequently things could not be seen very clearly or distinguishably in the room.  Across the threshold her foot slid over something soft and slippery; stooping, her hand closed upon a flower, while she brushed another.  Puzzled, she felt her way over to the table in the center of the room, where she had put the green Devonshire bowl.  It was empty.

“That’s funny,” she murmured, her mind attempting to ferret out an explanation.  She dropped to her knees and scanned the floor closely.  There they were, the primroses, a curving trail of them stretching from the head of Pancho’s bed to the foot of Michael’s.  She choked back an exclamation just as a shadow cut off the light from the hall.  It was a man’s shadow, and the voice of the House Surgeon came over the threshold in a whisper: 

“What are you doing—­burying ghosts?”

“Come and see, and let the light in after you.”

The House Surgeon came and stood behind her where she knelt.  She looked so little and childlike there that he wanted to pick her up and tell her—­oh, such a host of things!  But he was a wise House Surgeon, and his experience on the stairs had not counted for nothing; moreover, he was a great believer in the psychological moment, so he peered over her shoulder and tried to make out what she was looking at.

“Faded flowers,” he volunteered at last, somewhat doubtfully.

“A primrose ring,” she contradicted.  “But who ever heard of one in a hospital?  Take care—­” For the surgeon’s shoe was carelessly knocking some of the blossoms out of place.  “Don’t you know that no one must disturb a primrose ring?  It’s sacred to Fancy; and there is no telling what is happening inside there to-night.”

“What?” The House Surgeon asked it as breathlessly as any little boy might have.  Science had goaded him hard along the road of established facts, thereby causing him to miss many pleasant things which he still looked back upon regretfully, and found himself eager for, at times.  Of course, he had scoffed at them aloud and before Margaret MacLean, but inwardly he adored them.

She did not answer; she was too busy wondering about something to hear the House Surgeon’s question.  Her eyes looked very big and round in the darkness, and her face wore the little-girl scarey look as she reached up for his hand and clutched it tight, while her other hand pointed across the primrose ring to the row of beds.