Mary Cecil Hay

A Shadow on the Threshold Mary Cecil Hay

The little boys have just started off to school, Dolf carrying the bag of school-books, and Stevie a little parcel of my seed-cake for their luncheon; and I, still standing at the shop door where I always wait for their last nod and smile, feel my eyes fill with tears. Though I sat up so late last night mending their coats, though I brushed their caps so carefully, and though I made their little frayed collars as white as hands could make them, my little brothers still look very, very poor. And I can not help it. Those who are poor know how impossible it is to look otherwise, even with all care, and will understand how, though I try so hard (and have tried for all the seven years since our mother died), we all still look what we are very, very poor. My little brothers are at the comer of the street now; they turn with their last smile, and in another moment they are out of sight.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)

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