"Glad I am, mother, the holidays are over. It's quite different
going back to school again when one goes to be captain--as I'm
sure to be. Isn't it jolly?"
Mrs. Boyd's face as she smiled back at Donald was not exactly
"jolly." Still, she did smile; and then there came out the
strong likeness often seen between mother and son, even when, as
in this case, the features were very dissimilar. Mrs. Boyd was a
pretty, delicate little English woman: and Donald took after his
father, a big, brawny Scotsman, certainly not pretty, and not
always sweet. Poor man! he had of late years had only too much
to make him sour.
Though she tried to smile and succeeded, the tears were in Mrs.
Boyd's eyes, and her mouth was quivering. But she set it tightly
together, and then she looked more than ever like her son, or
rather, her son looked like her.
He was too eager in his delight to notice her much. "It is
jolly, isn't it, mother? I never thought I'd get to the top of
the school at all, for I'm not near so clever as some of the
fellows. But now I've got my place; and I like it, and I mean to
keep it; you'll be pleased at that, mother?"
"I should have been if--if--" Mrs. Boyd tried to get the words
out and failed, closed her eyes as tight as her mouth for a
minute, then opened them and looked her boy in the face gravely
and sadly.
"It goes to my heart to tell you--I have been waiting to say it
all morning, but, Donald, my dear, you will never go back to
school at all.
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