"Those never loved Who dream that they 'loved once.'"-E. B. Browning. "You won't be long any way, dear Auntie?" said Sylvia with a little sigh. "I don't half like your going. Couldn't you wait till the day after to-morrow?" "Or at least take me with you," said Molly, Sylvia's younger sister, eagerly. Auntie hesitated-she glanced up at as much of the sky as could be seen through the lace-shrouded windows of their pretty Paris salon-it was already beginning to grow dusky, for though only half-past three, it was the thirty-first of December, and a dull day-and then turned with decision towards the door. "No, dears," she said; "I shall go more quickly alone. Sylvia's cold would be none the better for going out so late, and I would rather you, Molly, stayed with her. So good-bye, darlings; I shall not be long." "I should not like to think of poor Sylvia sitting alone in the gloaming, to-day of all days," said Auntie to herself as she made her way down the three flights of handsome marble stairs which led to their appartement. "I can see she is very sad-remembering how different it was this day last year. And dear Molly's good spirits are an inestimable blessing. Ah, my darlings, I may do my best, I will do my best, but I cannot make up to you for grandmother;" and with the tears in her eyes, and many a tender thought in her heart, Auntie made her way along the street.