"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.