their warm coverlet; and then the children went back to the fire, and, while Max made ringlets of the dandelion-stalks and stuck them in Thekla's hair, April began:—
"My story isn't much," she said. "I've told so many in the course of my life that I'm quite exhausted, for I make it a rule never to tell the same twice. Some are so sad that it makes me cry merely to think of them,"—and as she said this April's tears suddenly rained down her face,—"and others so jolly that I should split my sides if I tried." Here April giggled like a school-girl, and her eyes seemed to send out rays of sun which danced on the wet tear-stains. "So it must always be new," she went on; "and, ever since I saw you, I've been trying to decide what it should be. There was a delightful one about ducklings which I thought of,—but no!" and she solemnly shook her head.
"Oh, why not? Do, pray do!" cried Max.
"Couldn't," said April. "That story—the first half of it at least—I told to a little girl in
