urrence for Aunt Hildy to mention it even
to her, whom she had always considered her best friend.

If Jane had not herself been interested, it would have leaked out
probably, but these two women, differing so strangely from each other,
had held their secrets close to their hearts, and for twenty-five long
years had nightly prayed for the wanderers.

Aunt Hildy's husband was a strange man; their boy inherited his father's
peculiarities, and when he went away with him was only sixteen years of
age.

Daniel Turner was twenty-nine, and the opinion prevailed that he left
home because he was unwilling to marry Jane, although they had been for
several years engaged, and she had worked hard to get all things ready
for housekeeping. He was not a bad-looking man, and evidently possessed
considerable strength.

Clara managed it all nicely, and when the three weeks' probation ended,
they were quietly married at Mr. Davis', and Mr. Turner went to work on
the farm which Jane had for many years let out on shares. He worked well
through the rest of the winter, and the early spring found him busy
doing all that needed to be done.

He was interested in our scheme, and felt just pride in the belongings
of the Home, which was really settling into a permanency. We sometimes
had letters of interrogation and of encouragement as well, from those
who, hearing of us, were interested.

Louis often said the day would come when many institutions of this kind
would be established, for the object was a worthy one, and no great need
can cry out and not finally be heard, even though the years may multiply
ere the answer comes.

"Changes on every hand," said Mr. Davis, "and now that the pulpit has
come down nearer to the people, and I can send my thoughts directly into
their hearts, instead of over their heads, as I have been so often
forced to do, we may hope that the chain of our love will weld us
together as a unit in strength and feeling. I almost wish our town could
be called New Light, for it seems to me the world looks new as it lies
about us. The lantern of love, we know, is newly and well trimmed, and I
feel its light can never die; it may give place to one which is larger,
and whose rays can be felt further, but it can never die. I really
begin to believe there is no such thing as death. I dislike the word,
for it only signifies decay. I call it change, and that seems nearer
right."

"So it is, Mr. Davis," said Clara, as he talked ea