On New Year's Day Mary was sitting by the fire-side reading a yellow French novel. The doors of the _salon_ were flung open by François, and she heard the voice of her maid. "_Allez-y, mademoiselle. Voilà Madame qui vous attend._" Thin black legs moving in gingerly steps over the gleaming parquet. A shy face hiding itself in the wraps of the long journey. "My darling child, here you are at last!" "Oh, grandmother, you've thrown your book in the fire. Shall I pick it out for you?" Yes, a slight Cockney accent, but what did that matter when in her arms she held youth, when to her heart she pressed youth? "My little girl, I'm so glad you're come to live with your old grandmother." THE END