He closed his eyes and lay thinking. After a little he put out his hand and touched an electric bell. Its distant summons presently brought into the room the tall and commanding figure of a woman with iron-gray hair and a capable face. Mrs. Griggs had been Mr. Stephen Kingsley’s housekeeper for thirty years; there could be no person more fitting for an elderly bachelor to consult. Mr. Kingsley opened his eyes and regarded Mrs. Griggs with an air of deliberation. His plans were made. He announced them. As one looked at Mrs. Griggs one would hardly have expected an employer so helpless as he to issue orders to a subject so powerful as she, in so firm a manner. Yet he gave the impression of consulting her, after all. "Mrs. Griggs," said he, "I am thinking of having a Christmas house-party. Merely the family, you know. Yet that means a considerable number, including—er—all the babies. Should you think we could accommodate them?" Mrs. Griggs’s somewhat stern expression of face grew incredulous. Having served Mr. Kingsley so long, under conditions so peculiar, she was accustomed to take—and was allowed—liberties of speech which would have been sternly forbidden any other person outside the circle of kinship. "The family!" said she. "You—they—why, there won’t more’n half of them come. Your brother Sylvester and your brother Samuel——" "I understand about Sylvester and Samuel. That is why I want a Christmas house-party." "Your sister Clara and your sister Isabel——" "That was not serious. They must be quite over it by now." "Not over it at all. It’s worse. I happen to know what they said to each other the last time they were here. Your sister Clara said——" "Never mind, Mrs. Griggs. We must surely get them here. The others are certainly on the best of terms." Mrs. Griggs pursed her lips. "I guess you’ve forgotten, Mr. Stephen about that old fuss between George’s family and William’s. They’ve never been the same since. There’s a coolness——" "We will warm it up. Coolness can’t exist in the Christmas warmth. If you feel that you can tuck everybody away somewhere——" "Mr. Stephen"—Mrs. Griggs’s tone was a trifle indignant—"there’s eleven sleeping-rooms in this house." "Are there? I had forgotten. I haven’t been upstairs in—twenty years. I can’t quite remember whether there are fireplaces in them all." "All but two—and they have Franklin stoves." "Have Israel fill all the wood-boxes, Mrs. Griggs. Send him to the woods for ground-pine. I will order holly from the city. Tell Mary and Hannah to begin cooking and baking. But I must write my invitations. It’s three weeks yet to Christmas. Plenty of time to plan. Please hand me my writing materials, Mrs. Griggs." "Mr. Stephen"—the housekeeper’s hand lingered on the leather tablet without taking it from the desk across the room—"do you think you’d better try to write all those letters to-day? There’s considerable many of the family and—you didn’t sleep much last night."