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.”
“You will ask Him too, mother;—you will pray Him to make me brave, and—and—”
“And what else?” she inquired, fixing her eyes upon him.
“And steady,” replied Hugh, casting down his eyes; “for that is what I want most of all.”