You will have to face the
world and earn your own living, as soon as ever you can. My poor
boy!"
"Don't call me poor, mother. I've got you and father and the
rest. And, as you say, I've had a good education so far. And
I'm fifteen and a half, no, fifteen and three-quarters-- almost a
man. I'm not afraid."
"Nor I," said his mother, who had waited a full minute before
Donald could find voice to say all this, and it was at last
stammered out awkwardly and at random. "No; I am not afraid
because my boy has to earn his bread; I had earned mine for years
as a governess when father married me. I began work before I was
sixteen. My son will have to do the same, that is all."
That day the mother and son spoke no more together. It was as
much as they could do to bear their trouble, without talking
about it, and besides, Donald was not a boy to "make a fuss" over
things. He could meet sorrow when it came, that is, the little
of it he had ever known, but he disliked speaking of it, and
perhaps he was right.
So he just "made himself scarce" till bedtime, and never said a
word to anybody until his mother came into the boys' room to bid
them good-night. There were three of them, but all were asleep
except Donald. As his mother bent down to kiss him, he put both
arms round her neck.
"Mother, I'm going to begin to-morrow."
"Begin what, my son?"
"Facing the world, as you said I must. I can't go to school
again, so I mean to try and earn my own living.
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