st, 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.

The two girls were watching her, though she did not know it. There was a
tiny balcony outside the window on to which Molly stepped almost as soon
as the door had closed on Auntie.

"Come out here for a moment, Sylvia," she called to her sister; "we can
see her as far as the corner"--for the street was one of the wide
handsome avenues in the new part of Paris, and there were few
passers-by. "As far as the corner," therefore, it was easy to
distinguish Auntie's figure in its deep mourning dress--not _quite_ so
erect or active as it used to be, for Auntie was no longer young, and
this year, so nearly ended now, had brought her the greatest sorrow of
her life--as she quickly made her way.

"Dear Auntie," said Sylvia; "I wish she were back again. I am sure we
could have done without money for a day."

"_Two_ days it would have been," corrected Molly; "the bank will be
closed to-morrow, you know."

"Of course I know that," said Sylvia, a little testily.

"And there are some people coming to be paid, and Auntie never likes to
keep any one waiting," continued Molly imperturbably. "If Auntie had
only taken me with her----"

"How absurd you are!" said Sylvia. "You speak as if Auntie were a baby,
or as if no one could take care of her but you--no, dear," she broke off
hastily, "I should not speak like that. I don't mean to be cross--but
oh, Molly, how we do miss grandmother," and the quickly rising tears in
the pretty eyes raised to her sister's face at once subdued any
resentment Molly may have felt. She bent her tall figure--for, though
nearly two years younger, she was taller than her sister--and enveloped
Sylvia in a loving hug.

"My darling," she said--the mass of fair hair, which, even at eighteen,
she found it no easy matter to keep in order, mingling with Sylvia's
soft clustering chestnut locks; "my darling--of course we do--but,
Sylvia, we must try to be happy. Think how _she_ always said so. And
next year--next year may be happier. Papa and Ralph are almost sure to
be with us again by this time next year."

"_This_ year has certainly only brought us sorrow," said Sylvia
mournfully; "I wish Auntie had not gone out. I have a presentiment
something will go wrong."

"Don't be fanciful, dear; Auntie will soon be back. Come in and let us
get ready a cosy