le
in that way, for the monk came up to him smiling.

"I'm going to speak to your brothers, Fred," he said. "I told the Queen
that you had promised to try very hard, and she said she was very glad,
but she would be so much happier if your brothers came too; so I am
going to ask them to come. Do you know where they are?"

"Out in the broad courtyard," said Alfred quickly; but Father Swythe
shook his head.

"No," he said; "I came across just now, and they were not there."

At that moment the distant barking of a dog was heard; followed by a
yelping chorus which made the boy run to the window and look out, to
catch sight of three figures and some half-dozen dogs disappearing over
the hill slope.

"I think they have gone after the otters with the dogs," said Alfred
sadly.

"Oh, I see," said the monk; "and you feel dull because you are not with
them?"

Alfred was too honest to deny it.

"Never mind, boy," said the little monk cheerily; "come to my room, and
we'll finish making the ink, and then you can learn to read the letters
as I make them, while I write out a poem for the Queen; and then I'll
get out the red and blue and yellow, and the thin leaves of gold, and
we'll try and make a beautiful big letter like those in the Queen's
book, and finish it off with some gold."

"But you can't do that?" cried Alfred, interested at once.

"Perhaps not so well as in the Queen's beautiful book; but come and
see."

The boy eagerly took hold of the monk's hand, and they were soon seated
at the little table in Swythe's room, with the light shining full upon
the slate slab, the pebble grinder, and the black patch.

"You said that was ink yesterday," said the boy, as Swythe gave the
pebble a few turns round, and then looked to see if the ink was of the
right thickness, which it was not, so a feather was dipped in a
water-jug, and a few drops allowed to fall upon the black patch.

"There," said Swythe, "a good writer makes all his own ink. Now you
grind that up till it is well mixed. Gently," cried Swythe; "that ink
is too precious to be spread all over the slab. Grind it round and
round. That's the way! That will do!"

As he spoke, Swythe took a thin-bladed knife and a good-sized,
nicely-cleaned fresh-water mussel-shell, and let the boy carefully
scrape up all the ink from the slab and place it in the shell.

"That's well done!" he said. "Now we'll write a line of letters."

"Yes," cried the boy; "let me write