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."