“And mine, too,” said Monsieur Ciseaux from the other side of Jules’s couch. He took the little fellow’s hand in his. “They told me about the tree that you prepared for me. I have been up to look at it, and now I have come to thank you.” To the surprise of every one in the room, monsieur bent over and kissed the flushed little face on the pillow. Jules reached up, and, putting his arms around his uncle’s neck, laid his cheek a moment against the face of his stern old kinsman. Not a word was said, but in that silent caress every barrier of coldness and reserve was forever broken down between them. So the little Prince came into his kingdom,—the kingdom of love and real home happiness.
* * * * *
It is summer now, and far away in the little brown house across the seas Joyce thinks of her happy winter in France and the friends that she found through the gate of the giant scissors. And still those scissors hang over the gate, and may be seen to this day, by any one who takes the trouble to walk up the hill from the little village that lies just across the river Loire, from the old town of Tours.