t his
eyes open to everything, and never let the "golden minute" slip by him.
He never idled about--play he didn't consider idling (nor do I). And I
am bound to confess that every day until the new clothes came home was
scrupulously spent in cricket, football, and all the other amusements
which he was as good at as he was at his lessons. He wanted "to make the
best of his holidays," he said, knowing well that for him holiday time
as well as school time was now done, and the work of the world had begun
in earnest.

The clothes came home on Saturday night, and he went to church in them
on Sunday, to his little sister's great admiration. Still greater was
their wonder when, on Monday morning, he appeared in the same suit,
looking quite a man, as they unanimously agreed, and almost before
breakfast was done, started off, not saying a word of where he was
going.

He did not come back till the younger ones were all away to bed, so
there was no one to question him, which was fortunate, for they might
not have got very smooth answers. 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