laid the pieces along the letter, cutting off edges and scraps that were not wanted, and covering up bare places so carefully and with such great pains that at last there was not a trace left of the gummed letter, a rough, rugged gold one being left in its place.

“There!” cried Swythe, when he had covered the last speck, and all was gold leaf; but Alfred shook his head.

“It looks very beautiful,” he said; “but I don’t like it. The edges are all rugged and rough.”

“So they are!” replied Swythe, and, taking now a clean dry brush, he began to smoothe and dab and press gently till there was not a trace left of where the scraps of gold joined or lay one over the other, all becoming strong and perfect excepting the edges, where the gold lay loose, till, quite satisfied with his work, the monk passed his brush briskly over the letter, carrying off every scrap of gold outside the gummed letter, and leaving this clean, smooth, and glistening.

“Oh, Father Swythe,” cried Alfred, clapping his hands, “you are clever! It’s beautiful!”

“You like it, then, my boy?” said the old man gravely. “You shall soon be able to do that with your light fingers.”

The boy looked down at his hands and then took up the pen the monk had laid down, dipped it in the ink, and tried to make a letter.

“Well done,” said Swythe, smiling; “that is something like O. Now make another, and try if you can make it worse than the last.”

The boy looked up at him sharply.

“You are laughing at me!” he said.

“Well, if I am, it is only to make you try and do better. Go on again!”

The boy hesitated before looking hard at the letter he had tried to imitate, and then tried once more.

“Ever so much better!” cried the monk. “Come to me every day, and try like that, and in a very short time you will be able to read and write.”