Phil could not bear him.

“If you can bring yourself to learn your lessons well,” said his mother, “you need not fear the usher. But remember it depends upon that. You will do well enough in the playground, I have no doubt.”

After this, there was only to settle the time that was to pass—the weeks, days, and hours before Michaelmas-day; and whether these weeks and days should be employed in preparing for Crofton under Miss Harold, or whether he should take his chance there unprepared as he was. Mrs Proctor saw that his habits of inattention were so fixed, and his disgust at lessons in the parlour so strong, that she encouraged his doing no lessons in the interval. Hugh would have said beforehand that three weeks’ liberty to read voyages and travels, and play with Harry, would have made him perfectly happy; but he felt that there was some disgrace mixed up with his holiday, and that everybody would look upon him with a sort of pity, instead of wishing him joy; and this spoiled his pleasure a good deal. When he came home from his walk, Agnes thought he looked less happy than when he went out; and she feared his spirits were down about Crofton.

His spirits were up and down many times during the next three weeks. He thought these weeks would never be over. Every day dragged on more slowly than the last; at every meal he was less inclined to eat; and his happiest time was when going to bed, because he was a day nearer Crofton. His mother, foreseeing just what happened, wished to have kept the news from him till within a week of his departure, and had agreed with Mr Proctor that it should be so. But Mr Proctor hated secrets, and, as we see, let it out immediately.

At last, the day came;—a warm, sunny, autumn day, on which any one might have enjoyed the prospect of a drive into the country. The coach was to set off from an inn in Fleet Street, at noon, and would set Hugh down at his uncle’s door in time for dinner, the distance being twenty-eight miles. His uncle’s house was just two miles from the school. Phil would probably be there to meet his brother, and take him to Crofton in the afternoon.

How to get rid of the hours till noon was the question. Hugh had had everything packed up, over which he had any control, for some days. He had not left himself a plaything of those which he might carry: and it frightened him that his mother did not seem to think of packing his clothes till after breakfast this very morning. When she entered his room for the purpose, he was fidgeting about, saying to himself that he should never be ready. Agnes came with her mother, to help: but before the second shirt was laid in the box, she was in tears and had to go away; for every one in the house was in the habit of hiding tears from Mrs Proctor, who rarely shed them herself, and was known to think that they might generally be suppressed, and should be so.

As Hugh stood beside her, handing stockings and handkerchiefs, to fill up the corners of the box, she spoke as she might not have done if they had not been alone. She said but a few words; but Hugh never forgot them.

“You know, my dear,” said she, “that I do not approve of dwelling upon troubles. You know I never encourage my children to fret about what cannot be helped.”

There was nothing in the world that Hugh was more certain of than this.

“And yet I tell you,” she continued, “that you will not be nearly so happy at Crofton as you expect—at least, at first. It grieves me to see you so full of expectation—”

“Does it indeed, mother?”

“It does indeed. But my comfort is—”

“You think I can bear it,” cried Hugh, holding up his head. “You think I can bear anything.”

“I think you are a brave boy, on the whole. But that is not the comfort I was speaking of; for there is a world of troubles too heavy for the bravery of a thoughtless child, like you. My comfort is, my dear, that you know where to go for strength when your heart fails you. You will be away from your father and me; but a far wiser and kinder parent will be always with you. If I were not sure that you would continually open your heart to Him, I could not let you go from me.”

“I will—I always do,” said Hugh, in a low voice. “Then remember this, my boy. If you have that help, you must not fail. Knowing that you have that help, I expect of you that you do your own duty, and bear your own troubles, like a man. If you were to be all alone in the new world you are going to, you would be but a helpless child: but remember, when a child makes God his friend, God puts into the youngest and weakest the spirit of a man.”

“You will ask Him too, mother;—you will pray Him to make me brave, and—and—”

“And what else?” she inquired, fixing her eyes upon him.

“And steady,” replied Hugh, casting down his eyes; “for that is what I want most of all.”

“It is,” replied his mother. “I do, and always will, pray for you.”

Not another word was said till they went down into the parlour. Though it was only eleven o’clock, Miss Harold was putting on her bonnet to go away: and there was a plate of bread and cheese on the table.

“Lunch!” said Hugh, turning away with disgust. “Do eat it,” said Agnes, who had brought it. “You had no breakfast, you know.”

“Because I did not want it; and I can’t eat anything now.”

Jane made a sign to Agnes to take the plate out of sight: and she put some biscuits into a paper bag, that he might eat on the road, if he should become hungry.

Neither Miss Harold nor Hugh could possibly feel any grief at parting; for they had had little satisfaction together; but she said very kindly that she should hope to hear often of him, and wished he might be happy as a Crofton boy. Hugh could hardly answer her;—so amazed was he to find that his sisters were giving up an hour of their lessons on his account,—that they might go with him to the coach!—And then Susan came in, about the cord for his box, and her eyes were red:—and, at the sight of her, Agnes began to cry again; and Jane bent down her head over the glove she was mending for him, and her needle stopped.

“Jane,” said her mother, gravely, “if you are not mending that glove, give it to me. It is getting late.”

Jane brushed her hand across her eyes, and stitched away again. Then she threw the gloves to Hugh without looking at him, and ran to get ready to go to the coach.

The bustle of the inn-yard would not do for little Harry. He could not go. Hugh was extremely surprised to find that all the rest were going;—that even his father was smoothing his hat in the passage for the walk,—really leaving the shop at noon on his account! The porter was at his service too,—waiting for his box! It was very odd to feel of such consequence.

Hugh ran down to bid the maids good-bye. The cook had cut a sandwich, which she thrust into his pocket, though he told her he had some biscuits. Susan cried so that little Harry stood grave and wondering. Susan sobbed out that she knew he did not care a bit about leaving home and everybody. Hugh wished she would not say so, though he felt it was true, and wondered at it himself. Mr Proctor heard Susan’s lamentations, and called to her from the passage above not to make herself unhappy about that; for the time would soon come when Hugh would be homesick enough.

Mr Blake, the shopman, came to the shop-door as they passed, and bowed and smiled; and the boy put himself in the way, with a broad grin: and then the party walked on quickly.

The sun seemed to Hugh to glare very much; and he thought he had never known the streets so noisy, or the people so pushing. The truth was, his heart was beating so he could scarcely see: and yet he was so busy looking about him for a sight of the river, and everything he wished to bid good-bye to, that his father, who held him fast by the hand, shook him more than once, and told him he would run everybody down if he