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.