'Am I?' she cried softly and complacently, as was her way when she felt she was about to be flattered. How different? In what way? Tell me.' 'You are prettier and nicer. There's no one in the world like you.' 'That's what you think.' 'That's what everybody must think.' 'Why, Chris!' she exclaimed, making a telescope with her two hands, and peeping at me through them, I declare your moustachois are coming.' I blushed scarlet. 'Are they?' I inquired, with an effort at unconsciousness, notwithstanding that I had already many times secretly contemplated in my looking-glass, with the most intense interest, these coming signs of manliness. 'But never mind them, Jessie; tell me about the Wests.' 'They are the most wonderful people, and the most delightful. I'm in love with all of them.' My blushes died away; jealous pangs assailed me again. 'Are there many of them?' I asked gloomily. 'Ever so many; but you must see for yourself. You will come for me, then? You mustn't knock at the door and say, "Tell Miss Trim I am waiting for her;" you must come right into the house.' But being angry with the Wests, and beginning to hate them because Jessie was so fond of them, I insisted that it would not be proper, because I had never been invited; and after a little quarrel, in which I deemed it necessary, as an assertion of manliness, to become more and more obstinate in my refusal, Jessie said with a pout, 'Oh, very well; if you're determined to stand upon your dignity, you'll see that other people can do so as well as you.' Thus it fell about that it became a point almost of honour with me not to go to the Wests, nor to express any desire to go; but I suffered agonies in consequence, and was tempted many times to humble myself. Jessie knew as well as possible what was going on in my mind; but she was offended with me on the subject, and would not assist me--would not even give me an opportunity of humbling myself. But all this while I have left uncle Bryan regarding me, as I have said, with more than usual interest. From me he turned his attention to the wall, upon which hung the picture of Jessie, in crayons, which I had finished. I said nothing, but proceeded with my work. 'What are you drawing now, Chris?' asked my uncle. Of course it was a sketch of Jessie. I murmured some words to the effect that it was nothing particular, and was about to put it in my desk, when uncle Bryan expressed a wish to see it. I could not refuse, and I handed it to him. It happened to be one of my happiest efforts; it would have been difficult to find a more winsome face than that which uncle Bryan gazed upon. He contemplated it for a long time without speaking--for so long a time that I asked him if he liked it, so as to break the awkward silence. He did not answer me. With the sketch still in his hand he said to my mother, 'Emma, I have not treated you fairly.' My mother looked up from her work in surprise. Uncle Bryan continued: