His mother saw
this, and she also forbore. She was not surprised that the
bright, brave face of the morning looked dull and tired, and that
evidently Donald had no good news of the day to tell her.
"I think I'll go to bed," was all he said. "Mother, will you
give me a 'piece' in my pocket to-morrow? One can walk better
when one isn't so desperately hungry."
"Yes, my boy." She kissed him, saw that he was warmed and
fed--he had evidently been on his legs the whole day--then sent
him off to his bed, where she soon heard him delightfully
snoring, oblivious of all his cares.
The same thing went on day after day, for seven days. Sometimes
he told his mother what had happened to him and where he had
been, sometimes not; what was the good of telling? It was always
the same story. Nobody wanted a boy or a man, for Donald,
trusting to his inches and his coat, had applied for man's work
also, but in vain. Mrs. Boyd was not astonished. She knew how
hard it is to get one's foot into ever so small a corner in this
busy world, where ten are always struggling for the place of one.
Still, she also knew that it never does to give in; that one must
leave no stone unturned if one wishes to get work at all. Also
she believed firmly in an axiom of her youth--"Nothing is denied
to well-directed labor." But it must be real hard "labor," and it
must also be "well directed." So, though her heart ached sorely,
as only a mother's can, she never betrayed it, but each morning
sent her boy away with a cheerful face, and each evening received
him with one, which, if less cheerful, was not less sympathetic,
but she never said a word.
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