I left home this summer for the first time, and followed my brother Tom to the grammar school in the county-town, in order afterwards to follow him to the University. There was so much of novelty and expectation in the change, that I did not feel the separation from my father and the rest of my family much at first. That came afterwards. For the time, the pleasure of a long ride on the top of the mail-coach, with a bright sun and a pleasant breeze, the various incidents connected with changing horses and starting afresh, and then the outlook for the first peep of the sea, occupied my attention too thoroughly. I do not care to dwell on my experience at the grammar school. I worked fairly, and got on; but whether I should gain a scholarship remained doubtful enough. Before the time for the examination arrived, I went to spend a week at home. It was a great disappointment to me that I had to return again without seeing Elsie. But it could not be helped. The only Sunday I had there was a stormy day, late in October, and Elsie had a bad cold, as Turkey informed me, and could not be out; while my father had made so many engagements for me, that, with one thing and another, I was not able to go and see her. Turkey was now doing a man’s work on the farm, and stood as high as ever in the estimation of my father and everyone who knew him. He was as great a favourite with Allister and Davie as with myself, and took very much the same place with the former as he had taken with me. I had lost nothing of my regard for him, and he talked to me with the same familiarity as before, urging me to diligence and thoroughness in my studies, pressing upon me that no one had ever done lasting work, “that is,” Turkey would say--“work that goes to the making of the world,” without being in earnest as to the _what_ and conscientious as to the _how_. “I don’t want you to try to be a great man,” he said once. “You might succeed, and then find out you had failed altogether.” “How could that be, Turkey?” I objected. “A body can’t succeed and fail both at once.” “A body might succeed,” he replied, “in doing what he wanted to do, and then find out that it was not in the least what he had thought it.” “What rule are you to follow, then, Turkey?” I asked. “Just the rule of duty,” he replied. “What you ought to do, that you must do. Then when a choice comes, not involving duty, you know, choose what you like best.” This is the substance of what he said. If anyone thinks it pedantic, I can only say, he would not have thought so if he had heard it as it was uttered--in the homely forms and sounds of the Scottish tongue. “Aren’t you fit for something better than farm-work yourself, Turkey?” I ventured to suggest, foolishly impelled, I suppose, to try whether I could not give advice too. “It’s _my_ work,” said Turkey, in a decisive tone, which left me no room for rejoinder.