Usually the House Surgeon was easily convinced to the Margaret MacLean side of any argument; but this time, for reasons of his own, he turned an unsympathetic and stubborn ear.  He was coming to believe very strongly that all this fanciful optimism was so much laughing-gas, with only a passing power, and when the effect wore off there would be the Dickens to pay.  He did not want to see Margaret MacLean turn into a bitter-minded woman of the world—­stripped of her trust and her dreams.  He—­all of them—­had need of her as she was.  Her belief in the ultimate good of things and persons, however, was beyond power of human achievement; and the surest cure for disappointments was to amputate all expectations.  So the House Surgeon hardened his heart and became as professionally severe as he knew how to be.

“It’s absolutely impossible to expect a group of incurable children in an institution to be made as normal and happy as other children.  It can’t be done.  Those kiddies are up against a pretty hard proposition, I know; but the kindest thing you can do for them is to toughen them into not feeling—­”

The nurse in charge of Ward C wrenched away her hands fiercely.  “You’re just like the Senior Surgeon.  He thinks the whole dependent world—­the sick and the poor and the incompetent—­have no business with ideas or feelings of their own.  He’s always saying, ’Train it out of them; train it out of them; and it will make it easier for institutions to take care of them.’  It’s for ever the ‘right of the strong’ with him.  Unless you are able to take care of yourself you are not entitled to the ordinary privileges of a human being.”

“I’m not at all like the Senior Surgeon.  I don’t mean that, and you know it.  What I am trying to make you understand is that these kiddies can’t keep you always; some time they will have to learn to do without you.  When that happens it will come tough on them.  It would come tough on anybody; and the square thing for you to do is to stop being—­so all-fired adorable.”  The House Surgeon flung back his head and marched out of the board-room, slamming the door.

Behind the slammed door Margaret MacLean eyed the primroses suspiciously.  “I wonder—­is your magic working all right to-day?  Please—­please don’t weave any charms against him, little faery people.  He is the only other grown-up person who has ever understood the least bit; and I couldn’t bear to lose him, too.”

For the second time that morning she nestled her cheek against the blossoms.  Then the clock on the hospital tower struck eight.  She jumped with a start.  “Time to go on duty.”  Once again her eyes met the eyes of the Founder and sparkled witchingly.  She raised high the green Devonshire bowl from the President’s desk as for a toast.

“Here’s to Saint Margaret’s—­as you founded her; and the children—­as you meant them to be; and here’s to the one who first understood!” She turned from the Founder to the portrait hanging opposite, and bowed most worshipfully to the Old Senior Surgeon.