farmer's son in Marsden, Gould, Stornaway, and Lake Megantic, envied
Donald that easy swaggering air, that frank, perhaps defiant outlook,
which the girls secretly adored. Is it the village maiden alone who
confesses to a secret charm in dare-devilism? 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