a

THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 57

Early Visitor, then, “ that we will not meet again next week.
I think — that it may be as well, — Miss Jasper, for you to
surrender the effort to master the art of composition.”

Poor little Miss Jasper ‘ surrendered”? heartily. The
principal, not at all patiently, informed her that she was
grieved to feel, but feel she did, that it would not be best far
her to pursue her studies in the seminary beyond the close
of the term, — that perhaps a retired Western life would be
more calculated to improve her mind, — and that she had
written to her father to that effect. At that, Jem’s heart
broke.

“¢ What is your father ?”’ asked some sympathetic girls in
a little crowd about her.

“ Furniture,” sobbed Jem. “ And poor, almost, — and
I’ve cost him so much,— and there ’s a boy yet to come after
me, — and it seems as if I could n’t bo — bear it, to go home
a fu — fool!”

Jem did not wait for the end of the term, so they tell me,
nor for the departure of the letter. She burned her compo-
sitions, tipped over the bulwark of elements, packed her
trunks, and went home. Her father was making a coffin,
when she walked, dusty and wretched from her long journey,
into the shop.

““ What did you come home for?” said he.

‘“* Because I’m a dunce,”’ said she.

“ Have you told your mother?” said he.

“ Yes,” said she.
3*