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 mother tells me of her home, where life was lived in great and merry style with musical evenings, dances, and sleighing parties. Ah, grandfather, grandfather, why did you squander all your money, so that none of the pleasures were left for your poor little grand-daughter? And you, lovely and wonderful grandmother, about whom the legends tell fascinating, naughty fairy-tales, why did I not know you, you splendid woman, who on your marriage day, tired of the great feast and rejoicing of friends, escaped with grandfather and flew off in a sleigh drawn by four horses to the brightly lit country inn, where you two alone continued the feast—you two alone.

If you—from your—I am sure—radiant heaven, could follow your family's earthly strife, I think you would pity mother and me for the way in which we have kept New Year's eve. In our home it is not the habit, as it was in yours, to honour the old year with ringing farewells from friends gathered round a festive board, or bidding the New Year welcome to the merry popping of the champagne corks.

We sat quite alone, mother and I, waiting for the New Year. Each in her own corner of the sofa we sat huddled up, sat during two long hours, not having the heart to commence our usual talk. But when the old, worn-out bells of the grandfather clock, with their wheezy notes, sounded the midnight chime, we started up and listened, and a curious fear crept over me. It was foolish, but I seemed to feel