Aunt Jo’s Scrap-Bag Vol. 1

insisted on calling the lofty spinster who loved him like half-a-dozen
grandmothers rolled into one.

December roses blossomed in the gardens then, and Laddie never failed to
have a posy ready for me at dinner. Few evenings passed without
'confidences' in my corner of the salon, and I still have a pile of
merry little notes which I used to find tucked under my door. He called
them chapters of a great history we were to write together, and being a
'polisson' he illustrated it with droll pictures, and a funny mixture
of French and English romance.

It was very pleasant, but like all pleasant things in this world of
change it soon came to an end. When I left for Italy we jokingly agreed
to meet in Paris the next May, but neither really felt that we should
ever meet again, for Laddie hardly expected to outlive the winter, and I
felt sure I should soon be forgotten. As he kissed my hand there were
tears in my boy's eyes, and a choke in the voice that tried to say
cheerfully--

'Bon voyage, dear and good little mamma. I do not say adieu, but au
revoir.'

Then the carriage rolled away, the wistful face vanished, and nothing
remained to me but the memory of Laddie, and a little stain on my glove