that the
Doctor had given him this book, he would master the subject once for all.
How strange it was! He wanted to remember these things very badly; he
knew he did, but he could never retain them; in spite of himself they no
sooner fell upon his mind than they fell off it again, he had such a
dreadful memory; whereas, if anyone played him a piece of music and told
him where it came from, he never forgot that, though he made no effort to
retain it, and was not even conscious of trying to remember it at all.
His mind must be badly formed and he was no good.

Having still a short time to spare, he got the keys of St Michael's
church and went to have a farewell practice upon the organ, which he
could now play fairly well. He walked up and down the aisle for a while
in a meditative mood, and then, settling down to the organ, played "They
loathed to drink of the river" about six times over, after which he felt
more composed and happier; then, tearing himself away from the instrument
he loved so well, he hurried to the station.

As the train drew out he looked down from a high embankment on to the
little house his aunt had taken, and where it might be said she had died
through her desire to do him a kindness. There were the two well-known
bow windows, out of which he had often stepped to run across the lawn
into the workshop. He reproached himself with the little gratitude he
had shown towards this kind lady--the only one of his relations whom he
had ever felt as though he could have taken into his confidence. Dearly
as he loved her memory, he was glad she had not known the scrapes he had
got into since she died; perhaps she might not have forgiven them--and
how awful that would have been! But then, if she had lived, perhaps many
of his ills would have been spared him. As he mused thus he grew sad
again. Where, where, he asked himself, was it all to end? Was it to be
always sin, shame and sorrow in the future, as it had been in the past,
and the ever-watchful eye and protecting hand of his father laying
burdens on him greater than he could bear--or was he, too, some day or
another to come to feel that he was fairly well and happy?

There was a gray mist across the sun, so that the eye could bear its
light, and Ernest, while musing as above, was looking right into the
middle of the sun himself, as into the face of one whom he knew and was
fond of. At first his face was grave, but kindly, as of a tired man who
feel