Tied to the little dog's collar when he went home the next morning was a tiny, inconspicuous tag that said "That was easy! The pup's name--and yours--is 'Meredith.' Funny name for a dog but nice for a girl." The Serial-Letter Co.'s answers were always prompt, even though perplexing. "DEAR LAD," came this special answer. "You are quite right about the dog. And I compliment you heartily on your shrewdness. But I must confess,--even though it makes you very angry with me, that I have deceived you absolutely concerning my own name. Will you forgive me utterly if I hereby promise never to deceive you again? Why what could I possibly, possibly do with a great solemn name like 'Meredith'? My truly name, Sir, my really, truly, honest-injun name is 'Molly Make-Believe'. Don't you know the funny little old song about 'Molly Make-Believe'? Oh, surely you do: "'Molly, Molly Make-Believe, Keep to your play if you would not grieve! For Molly-Mine here's a hint for you, Things that are true are apt to be blue!' "Now you remember it, don't you? Then there's something about "'Molly, Molly Make-a-Smile, Wear it, swear it all the while. Long as your lips are framed for a joke, Who can prove that your heart is broke?' "Don't you love that 'is broke'! Then there's the last verse--my favorite: "'Molly, Molly Make-a-Beau, Make him of mist or make him of snow, Long as your DREAM stays fine and fair, _Molly, Molly what do you care!_'" "Well, I'll wager that her name _is_ 'Meredith' just the same," vowed Stanton, "and she's probably madder than scat to think that I hit it right." Whether the daily overtures from the Serial-Letter Co. proved to be dogs or love-letters or hot-water bottles or funny old songs, it was reasonably evident that something unique was practically guaranteed to happen every single, individual night of the six weeks' subscription contract. Like a youngster's joyous dream of chronic Christmas Eves, this realization alone was enough to put an absurdly delicious thrill of expectancy into any invalid's otherwise prosy thoughts. Yet the next bit of attention from the Serial-Letter Co. did not please Stanton one half as much as it embarrassed him. Wandering socially into the room from his own apartments below, a young lawyer friend of Stanton's had only just seated himself on the foot of Stanton's bed when an expressman also arrived with two large pasteboard hat-boxes which he straightway dumped on the bed between the two men with the laconic message that he would call for them again in the morning. "Heaven preserve me!" gasped Stanton. "What is this?"