The time of my departure was coming. I scarcely need say that I had a new outfit. The darzies were set to work and various articles were purchased until the boxes were full to bursting. The day before my departure a large basket was filled, the center piece a huge fruit cake, surrounded by lesser cakes and the spaces filled with sweets. When this was full to the top, the sight of it was enough to gladden the mouths of any number of boys. Mr. Percy, no doubt, recalling his boyhood days as if he knew what was coming, said, “Charles, I think the boys will be glad to see you again.” And they were. We had many a feast out of that basket. We appointed a catering committee to see to the distribution and to prolong our stock. I could not take the credit to myself and omit Mr. Percy, so I told them that he had sent the basket for them as well as for me, and I think they were better boys for knowing they had such a friend. He, I think, would have called this one of his religious services. And why not? As I had plenty of money to buy all I wanted on our market day, I reserved most of my share of the basket for little Johnny, the only child of the widow, who, like me, never had a father, and except his poor mother, scarcely a friend. Though he was not of our higher class society, I invited him to our treats, and as it was my basket, and I was somewhat master of the situation, no one, except two or three snobs, made objection to his coming. My leaving home was quite an event, like the departure of some honored guest. All showed their love and respect not for myself alone, but on account of the friendship Mr. Percy had for me. He took me to the station in his carriage, and as the train was starting grasped me by the hand and with tears in his eyes said, “God bless you Charles. Be studious; be true; be clean in thought, in word, and deed,” and he stood watching until the train was out of sight. The years passed pleasantly though monotonously. We boys had our little tiffs as men have their big ones. Toward the close of the year we put up a big calendar of our own on the wall of our room, and in the evening, at the close of each day, a boy in turn marked off the date with a long black pencil, and we all joined in a song composed by our poet for the occasion. Any one who has never been a boy at school can smile at this if he pleases. It was our way of keeping track of time.