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“Well, I won’t have time to tell you every little thing, only that as Bernard and I grew up together, I did not love him any better. He was almost always kind and good.”

“Now Dud, you must not say so,” said Bernard, blushing. “I did everything to tease you.”

“You must not interrupt,” cried Dudley. “This is my story, remember. You never teased me much, but the great thing I couldn’t forgive you was that uncle loved you best.”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t,” cried Bernard.

“No more interruptions,” said all the children, and Dudley went on.

“Well, you see I was very suspicious and miserable, and I always thought Bernard wanted to make fun of me. When he first began to call me ‘Dud,’ for short, I thought he meant that I was like the old rags that Joe used to clean the carriages with, for he always used to call them ‘old duds.’ And then sometimes when I came in from riding on Lightfoot’s bare back, with my hair blown every sort of a way, if he said, ‘Shall we have our lessons now, uncle? here comes Wylde,’ I always thought he was trying to make uncle think I was wild like those horrid Indians we used to read about, while he, Bernard, was always neat and smooth like a little gentleman. So you see there was nothing that Bernard could do or say, that I did not twist around to make myself miserable.

“One day, when I had been playing with my dog Sambo half the morning, and riding Lightfoot the rest of the time, I was called on to recite Latin to uncle, and didn’t know one word. But Bernard recited like a book, and when it was over, uncle did not scold me, he never did, but just gave Bernard the pretty picture I had long been wanting, of the boy climbing up over crag and ice, shouting ‘Excelsior.’

“That very afternoon we had planned to take a walk together to an old ruined castle, but I was so cross and sullen I wonder Bernard did not slip away and go alone. I can’t begin to tell you how envious and unhappy I felt, and I quarrelled so with him about every little thing, that at last he scarcely opened his mouth.”

“I don’t believe this story is true,” said Flaxy indignantly. “I’m sure the Dudley Wylde we know was never so bad and quarrelsome.”

Dudley smiled, while Bettine whispered softly, “But he’s different now, Flaxy. Do you know his uncle says he is trying to be a Christian?“

Flaxy looked up with a bright tear of sympathy, as Dudley continued.

“At last we reached the castle, where we had often been before, and for a while I was more good-natured, for there was nothing I liked better than climbing up and down the broken stairway, which wound round and round like a great screw, or looking into every queer little room hid away in the thick walls, or climbing to the turrets to wave my handkerchief like the flag of a conquering hero.

“But this afternoon there was something new to see. In the great hall just under the stairs, the floor had lately caved away, and you could see down into a deep vault. Bernard and I lay down with our faces just over the edge, and tried to see the bottom, but it was dark as pitch, and we couldn’t make out anything.

“‘I shouldn’t wonder if they buried dead people there, a great while ago,’ said Bernard, with a little shiver; and when we both got up, feeling very sober, he said, just to raise our spirits,–

“‘Let’s have a race up the steps, and see which will get to the roof first.’

“Off we started. I could generally climb like a wild cat, but in some way I stumbled and hurt my knee, and Bernard gained very fast. I felt my quick temper rising again. ‘Shall he beat me in everything?’ I said to myself, and with a great spring I caught up to him, and seized his jacket. Then began a struggle. Bernard cried ‘Fair play,’ and tried to throw me off; but I was very angry, and strong as a young tiger, and all of a sudden–for I didn’t know what I was about–I just flung him with all my might right over the edge, where the railing was half broken down!”