Hugh, meantime, was counting the hours till Saturday. Perhaps, if the truth were known, so was Phil, though he was too old to acknowledge such a longing. But the climbing about the mill,--the play encouraged there by his uncle and the men,--his uncle's stories within doors, his aunt's good dinners,--the fire-side, the picture-books, the talk of home, altogether made up the greatest treat of the half-year. Phil had plenty of ways of passing the time. Hugh began a long letter home,--the very last letter, except the short formal one which should declare when the Christmas vacation should commence. Hugh meant to write half the letter before Saturday, and then fill it up with an account of his visit to his uncle's. The days were passed, however, when Hugh had the command of his leisure time, as on his arrival, when his hours were apt to hang heavy. He had long since become too valuable in the playground to be left to follow his own devices. As the youngest boy, he was looked upon as a sort of servant to the rest, when once it was found that he was quick and clever. Either as scout, messenger, or in some such capacity, he was continually wanted; and often at times inconvenient to himself. He then usually remembered what Mr Tooke had told him of his boy, when Tooke was the youngest,--how he bore things--not only being put on the high wall, but being well worked in the service of the older boys. Usually Hugh was obliging, but he could and did feel cross at times. He was cross on this Friday,--the day when he was so anxious to write his letter before going to his uncle's. On Saturday there would be no time. The early mornings were dark now; and after school he should have to wash and dress, and be off to his uncle's. On Friday then, his paper was ruled, and he had only to run across the playground to borrow Firth's penknife, and then nothing should delay his letter.