Her lips managed to keep reasonably steady, but she was wishing all the time that the House Surgeon would go and leave her free to be foolishly childish and weak.  She wanted to drop down beside Bridget’s bed and sob out her trouble.

But the House Surgeon had a very permanent look as he went on soberly talking.

“Well, you see, they took the children first because they were all ready.  Probably, very probably, they are sending for you later—­special messenger.  It’s still some minutes before midnight; and that’s the time things like that happen.  Isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.”  A little amused smile crept into the corners of her mouth while she rummaged about in some old memories for something she had almost forgotten.  “Perhaps”—­she began again—­“they will send the Love-Talker.”

“The what?”

“The Love-Talker.  Old Cassie used to tell us about him, when I was an ‘incurable.’  He’s a faery youth who comes on May Eve in the guise of some well-appearing young man and beguiles a maid back with him into faeryland.  He’s a very ardent wooer—­so Cassie said—­and there’s no maid living who can resist him.”

“Wish I’d had a course with him,” muttered the House Surgeon under his breath.  Then he gripped the table hard with both hands while the spirit of mischief leaped, flagrant, into his eyes.  “Would you go with him—­if he came?” he asked, intensely.

“If he came—­if he came—­” she repeated, dreamily.  “How do I know what I would do?  It would all depend upon the way he wooed.”

Unexpectedly the House Surgeon jumped to his feet, making a considerable clatter.

“Hush! you’ll waken the children.”

“But they’re not here,” he reminded her.

“Yes, I know; but you might waken them, just the same.”

Instead of answering, the House Surgeon stepped behind the rocker and lifted her out of it bodily; then his hands closed over hers and he lifted them to her eyes, thereby blind-folding them.  “Now,” he commanded, “take two steps forward.”

She did it obediently; and then stood waiting for further orders.

“You are now inside this magical primrose ring; and you said yourself, a moment ago, there was no telling what might happen inside.  Keep very still; don’t move, don’t speak.  Remember you mustn’t uncover your eyes, or the spell will be broken.  Hark!  Can you hear something—­some one coming nearer and nearer and nearer?”

For the space of a dozen breaths nothing could be heard in Ward C; that is—­unless one was tactless enough to mention the sound of two throbbing hearts.  One fluttered, frightened and hesitating; the other thumped, steady and determined.  Then out of the darkness came the striking of the hospital clock on the tower—­twelve long, mournful tolls—­and one of the House Surgeon’s arms slipped gently about the shoulders of Margaret MacLean.