Pride lies above pain; and Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders. [Illustration: Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.] "Phat wull a do the noo?" he asked. In the excitement Bridget had pulled herself to the foot of the cot; and there, eyes shining and cheeks growing pinker and pinker, she held her breath while the pleasantest thought of all shaped itself somewhere under the shock of red curls. "Ye could never guess in a hundthred years what I was thinkin' this minute," she burst forth, ecstatically. Eight mouths opened wide in anticipated wonder; but no one thought of guessing. "I'm thinkin'--I'm thinkin' we could make a primrose ring the night. Is there any knowledgeable one among ye that knows aught of a primrose ring?" Eight heads shook an emphatic negative. "Aye, wasn't I sayin' so! Well, sure, a primrose ring is a faery ring; an' any one that makes it an' steps inside, wishin' a wish, is like to have anythin' at all happen them afore they steps out of it ag'in." Eight breaths were drawn in and sighed out with the shivering delight that always accompanies that feeling which lies between fear and desire; likewise, eight delicious thrills zigzagged up eight cold little spines. Then Bridget shook a commanding finger at Sandy. "Ye take them flowers out o' the pot an' dthrop them, one by one, till ye have the ground covered from the head of Pancho's bed to the tail o' Michael's. 'Twon't make the whole of a ring, but if ye crook it out i' the middle to the wall yondther, 'twill be like enough." With a doubtful eye Sandy spanned the distance. "Na--na. Gien a hustled a wud be a dee'd loonie afore a had 'em spilled." "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.