"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."