ould not bear
that a minute of the precious time should be wasted in mere sitting
still.

"Why, isn't it a good time for some one else to tell his story?" asked
Flaxy.

"Just the thing," was the unanimous response. "Another story! a
story!" and then a voice cried, "And let Dudley Wylde tell it."

"Well," said Dudley, slowly, "if I must tell a _true_ story about
_myself_, I'm afraid it won't be much to my credit, but as Flaxy
wasn't a coward about it, I'll try to be as brave as a _girl_. Shall I
tell you something that happened to Bernard and me when we lived over
in England?"

"Oh, please don't tell that story, Dud," pleaded Bernard with
reddening cheeks, but all the rest cried, "Oh, yes, go on, go on," and
Dudley began.

"You all know that Bernard and I were both left orphans when we were
almost little babies, and Uncle Wylde sent for us to come and live
with him--me first, and Bernard about a year afterwards. I was only
six years old when Bernard came, but I remember I was very angry about
it. Old Joe, the coachman, and I, had had a quarrel that morning, and
he told me uncle 'would never care for me any more after Cousin
Bernard came, for he was a much finer boy than I, and looked like a
young English lord, with his blue eyes and white skin, but _I_ was a
little, dark, ill-tempered foreigner (my mother was Italian, you
know), and he wondered how uncle could like me at all.'"

"But uncle did love you dearly, you know," broke in Bernard.

"A great deal better than I deserved, that's certain," said Dudley,
"but I almost worshipped _him_, and I couldn't bear the thoughts of
his loving any one better than me. So all the day that Bernard was
expected I stood sulkily by the window, and would not play, nor eat,
nor even speak when Uncle Wylde came and took me in his lap.

"'Poor child,' said uncle, at last, 'he needs some one of his own age
to play with. I hope the little cousins will be fine company for each
other.'

"Just then the carriage drove up, and uncle ran out and took such a
lovely little boy in his arms; but when I heard him say, almost with a
sob, 'Darling child, you are just the image of your dear, dear
mother,' then I thought, 'There, it is all true what Joe said, uncle
loves him the best already;' and I bit my fingers so that when uncle
bade me hold out my hand to my cousin, he was frightened to see it
covered with blood, and drew back with a shiver; and then I grew angry
about that, too, and calle