“Tell us the end of the princess Rosetta, Louis,” cried Frank; “I want to know how the fair animal got out of her watery bedroom, and whether the green dog ever got his nose nipped by the oysters he was so fond of snapping up.”
“Yes, Rosetta!” cried several voices. “Did she ever get to the king of the peacocks, Louis?”
“No, no,” cried Reginald; “it is not fit for Sunday.”
“I am sure we have been doing heaps of good things to-day,” replied Frank, lightly; “come, Louis.”
“I must not,” said Louis, gently. “I do not like telling stories at night at all, because I think we ought not to fill our heads with such things when we are going to sleep; but I must not tell you Rosetta to-night, Frank.”
“Get along,” said Frank, contemptuously; “you are not worth the snap of a finger. All you are ever worth is to tell stories, and now you must needs set up for a good, pious boy—you, forsooth of all others!”
“Indeed, Frank, you will not understand me.”
“If you dare to say any more to Louis,” cried Reginald, “I'll make you—”
Louis' hand was upon Reginald's mouth.
Frank replied, tauntingly, “Ay, finish your work this time, that's right. Come boys, never mind, I'll tell you a wonderful tale.”