I had been well taught in a good school; I had had unusual advantages, for Aunt Agatha was an accomplished and clever woman, and spared no pains with me in her leisure hours; but by some freak of Nature, not such an unusual thing as people would have us believe, from some want of power in the brain—­at least, so a clever man has since told me—­I was unable to master more than the rudiments of spelling.

I know some people would laugh incredulously at this, but the fact will remain.

As a child I have lain sobbing on my bed, beaten down by a very anguish of humiliation at being unable to commit the column of double syllables to memory, and have only been comforted by Aunt Agatha’s patience and gentleness.

At school I had a severer ordeal.  For a long time my teachers refused to admit my incapacity; they preferred attributing it to idleness, stubbornness, and want of attention; even Aunt Agatha was puzzled by it, for I was a quick child in other things, could draw very well for my age, and could accomplish wonders in needlework, was a fair scholar in history and geography, soon acquired a good French accent, and did some of my lessons most creditably.

But the construction of words baffle me to this day.  I should be unwilling to write the simplest letter without a dictionary lying snugly near my hand.  I have learned to look my misfortune in the face, and to bear it with tolerable grace.  With my acquaintances it is a standing joke, with my nearest and dearest friends it is merely an opportunity for kindly service and offers to write from my dictation, but when I was growing into womanhood it was a bitter and most shameful trial to me, one secretly lamented with hot tears and with a most grievous sense of humiliation.

“No,” Aunt Agatha repeated, in the old pitying voice I knew so well, “you cannot be even a nursery governess, Merle.”

“Nor a companion either,” I exclaimed bitterly.  “Old ladies want letters written for them.”

“That is very true,” she replied, shaking her head.

“I could be a nurse in a hospital—­in fact, that is what I should like, but the training could not be afforded, it would be a pound a week, Aunt Agatha, and there would be my uniform and other expenses, and I should not get the smallest salary for at least two or three years.”

“I am afraid we must not think of that, Merle,” and then I relapsed into silence from sheer sadness of heart.  I had always so longed to be trained in a hospital, and then I could nurse wounded soldiers or little children.  I always loved little children.

But this idea must be given up, and yet it would not have mattered in a hospital if I had spelt “all-right” with one “l.”  I am quite sure my bandages would have been considered perfect, and that would have been more to the point.

(To be continued.)

THE AMATEUR CHURCH ORGANIST.