had not repeated the visit. Perhaps
the lady's report--together with that of the trunkman--was not
conducive to further acquaintance. It would appear so.

Toward the last of the summer a wild plan entered Mrs. Livingstone's
brain; and after some days of trembling consideration, she determined
to carry it out. The morning mail bore a letter from her to the
Inimitable One through his publishers. She had learned that he was to
be in Boston, and she had written to beg him to come up to his old home
and see if it was being cared for to his satisfaction. The moments
dragged as though weighted with lead until the answer came. When at
last it was in her hands, she twisted a hairpin under the flap of the
envelope and tore out the letter with shaking fingers.

It was from the Inimitable One's private secretary. The Inimitable One
did not understand her letter--he was the owner of no house in Vermont;
there was doubtless some mistake. That was all. The communication was
wholly enigmatic.

The letter fluttered to the floor, and Mrs. Livingstone's dazed eyes
rested on the gardener in the lawn below. In a moment she was at his
side.

"Peter, isn't this house owned by a very famous man?"

"Indade it is, ma'am."

"Who is he?" she demanded shortly, holding her breath until that
familiar name borne by the Inimitable One passed the other's lips.

"Well, Peter, is n't he the writer? What does he do for a living?" she
faltered, still mystified.

"Do? He fights, ma'am. He 's the big prize-fighter that won--" He
was talking to empty air. The woman had fled.

When Polly Ann Played Santa Claus

The Great Idea and What Came of It

Margaret Brackett turned her head petulantly from side to side on the
pillow. "I'm sure I don't see why this had to come to me now," she
moaned.

Polly Ann Brackett, who had been hastily summoned to care for her
stricken relative, patted the pillow hopefully.

"Sho! now, Aunt Margaret, don't take on so. Just lie still and rest.
You 're all beat out. That's what's the matter."

The sick woman gave an impatient sigh.

"But, Polly Ann, it's only the 22d. I ought not to be that--yet! It
never comes until the 26th, and I 'm prepared for it then. Sarah Bird
comes Christmas Day, you know."

Polly Ann's jaw dropped. Her eyes stared frankly.

"Sarah Bird!" she cried. "You don't mean you engaged her beforehand--a
_nurse_! That you knew you 'd need her!"

"Of course. I do ev