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 every year. Polly Ann, don't stare so! As if Christmas did n't use every one up--what with the shopping and all the planning and care it takes!" "But I thought Christmas was a--a pleasure," argued Polly Ann feebly; "something to enjoy. Not to--to get sick over." "Enjoy--yes, though not to be taken lightly, understand," returned the elder woman with dignity. "It is no light thing to select and buy suitable, appropriate gifts. And now, with half of them to be yet tied up and labeled, here I am, flat on my back," she finished with a groan. "Can't I do it? Of course I can!" cried Polly Ann confidently. The sick woman turned with troubled eyes.