hink I ought, for it's only wearing out
myself and my clothes to no good. Only let me have one day more and I'll
go as far as ever I can, perhaps to Dunfermline, or even Glasgow."

She would not forbid, and once more she started him off with a cheerful
face in the twilight of the wet October morning, and sat all day long
in the empty house--for the younger ones were now all going to school
again--thinking sorrowfully of her eldest, whose merry school days were
done forever.

In the dusk of the afternoon a card was brought up to her, with the
message that an old gentleman was waiting below, wishing to see her.

A shudder ran through the poor mother, who, like many another mother,
hated bicycles, and never had an easy mind when Donald was away on his.
The stranger's first word was anything but reassuring.

"Beg pardon ma'am, but is your name Boyd, and have you a son called
Donald, who went out on a bicycle this morning?"

"Yes, yes! Has anything happened? Tell me quick!"

"I'm not aware, ma'am, that anything has happened," said the old
gentleman. "I saw the lad at light this morning. He seemed to be
managing his machine uncommonly well. I met him at the foot of a hill
near Edinburgh Castle. He had got off and was walking; so he saw me, and
took off his cap. I like respect, especially in a young fellow towards
an old one."

"Did he know you, for I have not that pleasure?" said Mrs. Boyd, polite,
though puzzled. For the old man did not look quite like a gentleman,
and spoke with the strong accent of an uneducated person, yet he had a
kindly expression, and seemed honest and well-meaning, though decidedly
"canny."

"I cannot say he knew me, but he remembered me, which was civil of him.
And then I minded the lad as the one that had come to me for work a week
or two ago, and I took his name and address. That's your son's writing?"
he jumbled out and showed a scrap of paper. "It's bona fide, isn't it?

"And he really is in search of work? He hasn't run away from home, or
been turned out by his father for misconduct, or anything of that sort?
He isn't a scamp, or a ne'er-do-weel?"

"I hope he doesn't look like it," said Mrs. Boyd, proudly.

"No, ma'am; you're right, he doesn't. He carries his character in his
face which, maybe, is better than in his pocket. It was that which made
me ask his name and address, though I could do nothing for him."

"Then you were the gentleman who told him you couldn't keep a dog and
b