while he was at his
prayers."

"O Tom, Tom!" cried John. "I didn't think you could draw so long a bow!"

"It is quite understood that we are indulging in fiction," replied he.
"You know that falsehood consists in the _intent to deceive_. No one
will be taken in by my yarns, dear Coz!"

"Nor mine, either," said Cornelia. "For I was in Paris before the French
Revolution, at the same time as our philosopher, Benjamin Franklin. I
was present at court on a grand occasion. The king, Louis Sixteenth, a
handsome and amiable monarch, and the beautiful and graceful queen,
Marie Antoinette, were there of course; the young Dauphin was, I hope,
sound asleep. The ladies of the court were brilliant, and everything as
gay as gay could be. But to my surprise, our plain, simple republican
Dr. Franklin was the central object, the 'cynosure of all beholders.'
The king was quite secondary. Philosophy was then quite the rage, and
republican simplicity--in the abstract--was adored by these potentates.
One of the grand, gay ladies crowned Franklin with a wreath of flowers!
And he was wonderfully pleased with all the attention he received, I
assure you. It was a different scene from any in the Philadelphia of
those days--with our staid citizens, and sweet, gentle, modest Quaker
ladies in their plain dress!"

"And now," said Amy, "aren't you all tired of potentates? I am. This is
our last evening, and I want dear Uncle to tell us a story--something
from his own life, if he will--to finish up our pleasures."

"It would finish up your pleasures by putting you to sleep," Mr. Wyndham
answered, laughing gayly. "Mine has been an unusually happy life, but
not an adventurous one. I was never even in a railroad collision. Do you
remember the story of Dr. Samuel Johnson, when writing his 'Lives of the
Poets'?"

"Do tell us, Uncle," chimed in the young voices.

"He was trying to get information in a certain case, but could not
elicit anything of interest. At last, out of patience, he burst forth:
'Tell me, didn't he break his leg?' I never broke mine; I can't get up
an incident."

"And I'm very glad you didn't, Uncle mine," said little Amy. "And now I
speak by permission in the name of the assembled company: You are
unanimously requested to tell us your life, or something that happened
to yourself."

"'Story! Why, bless you, I have none to tell, Sir,' as Canning's needy
knife-grinder says. But if you all insist, as a good uncle, I must e'en
obe