84 ROBERT DAWSON.

put up and slipped into my pocket, “to eat by the
way, Bobby,” said she, smiling chrough her tears.

- “ Here, Robert,” said my father ; “here is a walking-
stick to help you on,—a stout one too.”

I had noticed how carefully he had smoothed and
fashioned it a few days before.

Jane looked out at the window sorrowfully. Cuff
was whining in the cellar, where he was fastened, to
prevent his accompanying me on my pilgrimage.

“How long after I was ready did I make believe I
was not ready! This little thing, and that, was still
to be seen to, until I could find no excuse to do more.
I stood up by the fire and buttoned up my coat. Ah!
the last good bye! I will not describe it. I ran from
the door down the road, without looking back, echoing
my father’s words, “A stout heart, Robert! a stout
heart!” Oh! the long, weary miles of that first day
from home !

At the close of the second day I reached B——.

“Where is Mr. John Simpson’s?” I asked of a boy

about my own age.