mercy, and if Mrs. Budlong boasted of anything more than
another it was her mercy.

"I have just been at the church," said Johnetta, "helping to decorate
it for Christmas week, and I was hanging up a big motto 'Peace on
Earth, Good Will to Men' and I think it ought to apply to women, too.
I grovel in apology and I pray you to forgive me. You can't refuse
your forgiveness when I implore it, can you?"

Mrs. Budlong wanted to but could not and the two women fell about each
other's throats and exchanged moan for moan. As they were comfortably
dabbing each other's tears from their cheeks and sniffing their own and
laughing cosily after the rain, Johnetta giggled and sobbed at once:

"The idea of your thinking I didn't just love you--and me working my
fingers to the bone making a Christmas present for you!"

X

A WELL-LAID PLAN

In the Civil War there were over two thousand battles and the details
could not be reported in a lifetime. But their result can be stated in
a phrase. The same brevity must apply to the campaigns, the
stratagems, ballistics and tactics of Mrs. Budlong: numberless efforts
at secession ended as a lost cause.

There was one more desperate struggle. While only a few days stood
between her and her famous Christmas afternoons, she and her dour
husband were having a bitter council of war. She had another attack of
inspiration.

"I have it! the very thing! Why haven't we thought of it before?
Quarantine!"

"Quarantine?" echoed Mr. Budlong as if the word were gibberish.

"Yes. If we had something contagious in the house and a quarantine on,
people couldn't come here with their odious gifts and they would be so
afraid to get ours that they'd be much obliged to us for not sending
them any."

For the first time in years Mr. Budlong paid Mrs. Budlong a sincere
homage:

"You're a genius. It takes a woman to squirm out of a difficulty after
all."

He was so excited he actually kissed her--and he hadn't finished his
evening paper at that!

This overjoyed her so far that she fairly glowed.

"Oh, I'm so glad you approve, Ulie dear. And you'll help me, won't
you?"

"You bet I will, ducky dove."

"That's glorious. Now which will you pretend to have, yellow fever or
smallpox or--"

"Which will _I_ pretend to have? Do you mean to say that you expect ME
to go bed with a fatal disease?"

"It doesn't have to be fatal, my love. Just so long as it's
contagious, you know."

"Wel