One hardly likes to pass on shabby garments, much less shabby facts, to
cover another's past. So the Old Senior Surgeon had forestalled her
inquisitiveness with a tale adorned with all the pretty imaginings that
he, "a clumsy-minded old gruffian," could conjure up.

Margaret MacLean remembered the story--word for word--as we remember
"The House That Jack Built." It began with the Old Senior Surgeon
himself, who heard a pair of birds disputing in one of the two trees
which sentineled the hospital. They had built a nest therein; it was
bedtime, and they wished to retire, only something prevented. Upon
investigation he discovered the cause--"and there you were, my dear, no
bigger than my thumb!"

This was the nucleus of the story; but the Old Senior Surgeon had
rolled it about, hither and yon, adding adventure after adventure,
until it had assumed gigantic proportions. As she grew older she took
a hand in the adventure-making herself, he supplying the bare plot, she
weaving the threads therefrom into a detailed narrative which she
retold to him later, with a few imaginings of her own added. This is
what had established the custom for the Old Senior Surgeon to take a
peep into Ward C at day's end and call across to her: "Hello, Thumbkin!
What's the news?" or, "What's happened next?" And until this day the
answer had always been a joyous one.

Margaret MacLean, grown, could look back at tiny Margaret MacLean and
see her very clearly as she straightened up in the little iron crib and
answered in a shrill, tense voice: "I'm not Thumbkin. I'm a foundling.
I don't belong to anybody. I never had any father or mother or
nothing, but just a hurt back; they said so. They stood right
there--two of them; and one told the other all about me."

This was the end of the story, and the beginning of Trustee Days for
Margaret MacLean.

She soon made the discovery that she was not the only child in the ward
who felt about it that way. Her discovery was a matter of intuition
rather than knowledge; for--as if by silent consent--the topic was
carefully avoided in the usual ward conversation. One does not make it
a rule to talk about the hobgoblins that lurk in the halls at night, or
the gray, creeping shapes that come out of dark corners and closets
after one has gone to bed, if one is so pitifully unfortunate as to
possess these things in childhood. Instead one just remembers and
waits, shivering. Only to old Cassie, the s