I said a little prayer for you, Polly dear. Then I hurried home, for there were so many things to attend to,--as Checkers would remark, “Merry Christmas, but not a dish washed!” * * * * * A. D. TO POLLY _Rome, December 31._ Tell your Aunt that Peppi is looking better but still far from well. He will not stay in bed and take care of himself, but keeps on painting and painting behind locked doors. The endless rains this autumn have been bad for him, though he seems gay and talks a lot--calls me the birdcage, because I have caught the Hummingbird. For me the place is full of memories of you--the terrace, the sitting-room with the corner where you used to make tea, and where I would sit, falling deeper and deeper in love, hour by hour. This is the last day of the dear old year, a year blessed as no other can be, for therein have I met my Polly, known her, loved her. Ah, old year, you have been good to me passing belief! How many moments of supreme happiness have you given me, days of bliss with my beloved, nights of anxiety away from her, moments of doubt and fear, moments of heavenly exaltation. Think of the mystery of the years! I was born the Lord knows when; you flew right down from heaven, and we loved so on this old earth. The last words I shall ever write in this year are--I love you, Polly! * * * * * POLLY TO A. D. _New York, December 31._ It is seven o’clock here and I somehow feel that you are thinking of me--in Rome it must be midnight, the beginning of the New Year. If we could only hold hands for just one little minute, it would make me so happy. An hour ago I sent you a cable, so you’ll get my message with your breakfast. There’s just a moment left in which to write a line before dressing for dinner. Then comes a ball to which I shall wear a frock all little fluttering iridescent draperies, suggesting an airy hummingbird. Sybil is spending the night here--it is months since I last saw her in Rome. She is just as pretty and lively as ever, smoking cigarettes all the time and using the same exaggerated language,--that you’re the handsomest man that ever existed, that I’m “the luckiest girl in Heaven or Hell.” She’s much excited over our betrothal and hopes we may live a million years and have a thousand children! Sybil went with me to ask Aunt to put an announcement in the papers, to which my autocratic relative replied that she would see. Do you suppose your Polly will have any partners now that she is engaged? For rumors are leaking out, of course. Partners or no partners, if Aunt doesn’t, I’ll put it in the papers myself, I will! You wouldn’t believe it of me, would you, but I’m growing positively sentimental. Half the time I live in a dream with you, dear, thinking of you, wanting so much to please you, wondering what you would like me to do. The little forget-me-not enclosed, carries a kiss. * * * * *