m? Let the social life of
every garrison city answer. The delicately nurtured lady's heart throbs
beneath lace and silk, and that of the village girl beneath cotton, but
the character of the emotion is the same.

"Oh, Donald, Donald, my dear son!"

Withered arms were round his neck, and loving lips pressed his cheek.

Donald's home-coming had been a surprise. He had sent no word to
his parents. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, when he entered
unannounced. For a moment she did not know him, but a mother's love is
seldom at fault. A second glance was enough. It passed over Donald the
bronzed and weather-beaten man, and reached to Donald the curly-headed
lad, whose sunny locks she had brushed softly when preparing him for
school.

"Yes, mother," said Donald, tenderly returning her greeting, "I am back
again. I intend to settle down. Father's letter showed me that things
were not going too well, and I thought I would come home and help to
straighten them out a bit. I have had my fill of wandering, and now I
think I would like to live quietly in the old place where I was born,
among the friends and the scenes which are endeared to me by past
associations."

"Oh, I wish you would, Donald," the old mother replied, with moist eyes.
"Your father wants you home, and I want you home. We're now getting old
and feeble. We won't be long here. Remain with us to the close."

"Well, Donald, my man, welcome back," a hearty voice cried.

Upon looking round Donald saw his father, who had been out in the
fields, and just came in as the mother was speaking. The two men
cordially shook hands.

"My, how changed you are," the father said. "I would hardly know you.
From the tone of your letters, you have had an adventurous life in the
West."

"Well," said Donald, "at first the novelty attracted. I was free. There
was no standard of moral attainment constantly thrust in your face, and
that was an enormous relief to me. You know how I often rebelled against
the strictness of life here. But even license fatigues; the new becomes
the old; and where there is no standard there is but feeble achievement.
I became a cowboy because that phase of life offered at a moment when
employment was a necessity. I remained at it because I could make money.
But I never meant this should be permanent. The wild life became dull to
me, and I soon longed for the quiet scenes from which I had been so glad
to escape. I learned to shoot and ride, and pick