BY KATHLEEN HUDDLESTON.


In a little Belgian village not many miles from Brussels the winter sun
shone brightly. It shone through the quaint old windows of a little,
red-tiled cottage, and on the figure of a girl who stood in the centre
of the kitchen reading a long, closely written letter. Over the blazing
fire, where the "pot au feu" was simmering, bent an old woman, and the
girl's voice came joyously to her as she stirred the savoury mess.

[Illustration: "MY AUNT, PAUL HAS SENT FOR ME."]

"My aunt, Paul has sent for me. At last he has got permanent work. It is
nothing very great at present, but it may lead to better things, and the
pay is enough, with what he has saved, to enable him to rent a little
'appartement.' If I can, he wants me, with our little Pierre, to catch
the coach at 'Les Trois Frères' to-morrow. We should then reach Brussels
by night and spend our New Year together."

As Babette spoke, her cheeks all flushed with hope and joy, the eyes of
both the women rested on a cradle that stood in the room. In this, baby
Pierre, only a twelvemonth old, lay sleeping peacefully.

Then said the old woman, sadly, "I shall miss you, dearest, and the baby
too. Still, it is only right you should go. Perhaps in the summer you
may return for a bit. Time passes quickly. A year ago you were weeping
over Paul's departure; and now, behold, you are going to join him, and
lay in his arms the son he has never seen."