aret's and do all the good work
you can, as you had planned? Only let me have these children to start
a home which shall be a future harbor for all the cases you cannot mend
with your science and which you ought not to set adrift. You can send
me all the convalescing children, too, who need country air and
building up. In return for this, and because you deserve to be
punished--just a little--for yesterday--I shall try my best to take
with me Margaret MacLean and your House Surgeon."

She laid a hand on both, while she added, softly: "Suppose we three go
home together and talk things over. Shall we?"

So the "Home for Curables" has come true. It crests a hilltop, and is
well worth the penny that Bridget gave for it. As the children
specified, there are no "trusters"; and it has all the modern
improvements, including Margaret MacLean, who is still "Miss Peggie,"
although she is married to their new Senior Surgeon.

There is one very particular thing about the Home which ought to be
mentioned. When the children arrived Toby was on the steps, barking a
welcome. No one was surprised; in fact, everybody acted as though he
belonged there. Perhaps the surprising thing would have been not
having the promise kept. Toby is allowed right of way, everywhere; and
rumor has it that he often sneaks in at night and sleeps on Peter's
bed. But, of course, that is just rumor.

The children are supremely happy; which means that no one is allowed to
cross the threshold who cannot give the password of a friend. And you
might like to know that many of the trustees of Saint Margaret's come
as often as anybody, and are always welcomed with a shout. The
President, in particular, has developed the habit of secreting things
in his pockets until he comes looking very bulgy.

Margaret MacLean always puts the children to sleep with Sandy's song;
she said it was written by a famous poet who loved children, and the
children have never told her the truth about it. And if it happens, as
it does once in a great while, that some one is missing in the morning,
there is no sorrowing for him, or heavy-heartedness. They miss him, of
course; but they picture him running, sturdy-limbed, up the slope to
the leprechaun's tree, with Michael waiting for him not far off.

To the children Tir-na-n'Og is the waiting-place for all child-souls
until Saint Anthony is ready to gather them up and carry them away with
him to the "Blessed Mother"; and M