en there came as if out of one of the low windows looking upon
the garden a deep-toned sound such as might have been made by a very big
and musical bee, and the boy's face brightened as he turned and made for
the door, crossed the hall, and then went down a stone passage, to stop
at a door, whose latch he lifted gently, and looked in, letting out at
once the full deep tones he had heard in the garden floating out of the
open window.

There was Swythe sitting at a low table beneath the window with his back
to him, singing a portion of a chant whose sweet deep tones seemed to
chain the boy to the spot, as he listened with a very pleasurable
sensation, and watched the monk busily turning a big flattened pebble
stone round and round as if grinding something black upon a square of
smoothly-polished slab.

Alfred watched eagerly, and his eyes wandered about the cell-like room
devoted to Swythe--a very plain and homely place, with a stool or two
and a large table beneath the window, while one side was taken up by the
simple pallet upon which the monk slept.

All at once the chanting ceased, the grinding came to an end, and, as if
conscious of someone being in the room, the monk turned his head, saw
Alfred watching him, and smiled sadly.

"Ah, my son," he said; "back from the chase so soon?"

"No," said Alfred huskily. "I did not go."

"Not go?" said the monk, in surprise. "How was that? Ah! I see," he
continued, for the boy was silent, "you and Ethelbald have quarrelled."

"No, indeed," cried Alfred, and then he stopped. The monk went on
without looking, passing the pebble slowly round and round upon the
slab, grinding up what looked like thin glistening black paste.

"Then why did you stay behind?" said the monk gravely.

"Because--because--because--oh, don't ask me!" cried the boy
passionately.

Swythe fixed his eyes gently and kindly upon the boy, and left off
grinding.

"Tell me why, Fred, my son," he said softly.

"Because of what Bald said and what you said; and then I went in and saw
my mother, and she is so unhappy; and--and--"

Then, with a wild and passionate outburst, the boy made a dash at the
old man and caught him by the shoulder, as he cried:

"Oh, Father Swythe, I do want to learn to read and to write, and be what
you said. Please forgive me and help me, and I will try so hard--so
very, very hard!"

"My son!" cried the monk, in a choking voice, and, as the boy was drawn
tightly to the o