nd knew them and named them. We planned
great things together and great journeys we should make. That they were
not to be she never knew.... And then she fell asleep....

Her little life had fulfilled its mission. She had brought joy and
beauty and faith into our hearts; she had comforted us in our hours of
loneliness and despair; she had been the little cheerful builder of our
home--and perhaps God needed her.

She continued to sleep for three days, only for those three days her sun
porch was a bower of roses. On Memorial Day, Mother and I stood once
more together beside a little mound where God had led us. Late that
afternoon we returned to the home to which Marjorie had taken us. It had
grown more lovely with the beauty which has been ours, because of her.

* * * * *

The home is not yet completed. We still cherish our dreams of what it is
to be. We would change this and that. But, after all, what the home is
to be is not within our power to say. We hope to go forward together,
building and changing and improving it. To-morrow shall see something
that was not there yesterday. But through sun and shade, through trial
and through days of ease and of peace, it is our hope that something of
our best shall still remain. Whatever happens, it is our hope that what
may be "just a house" to many shall be to us the home we have been
building for the last fifteen years.

HOME

By Edgar A. Guest

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door.
Ye've got t' weep t' make it h