st
noise hoping for the familiar whistle; he haunted the well-worn
woodpath where they had had so many happy days together. Finally he
discovered his master's grave and was found frantically tearing at
the hard earth and heavy stones. Nor would he leave the spot. Food
was brought him daily, but it went untouched. For one whole week he
lay in the wind and weather in the hole he had dug on the grave. There
the children found him on the eighth morning curled up and apparently
asleep. His long quest and vigil were ended, for he had reached the
happy hunting grounds. Who shall say that a beloved hand and voice did
not welcome him home?

_St. Antoine Children's Home (by courtesy)
February 28_

Of one thing I am certain, we must have a new Home, for this house is
not fit for habitation, and it is not nearly large enough. Even after
my recent return from living in the tiny homes of the people which one
would fancy to be far less comfortable, this is forcibly impressed
upon me. We simply cannot go on refusing to take in children who need
its shelter so badly. So please spread this broadcast among the
friends in England. This Home has been enlarged once since it was
built, and yet it is not nearly big enough for our present needs. We
have no nursery, and I only wish you could see the tiny room which has
to do duty for a sewing-room. It is certainly only called "room" by
courtesy, for there is scarcely space to sit down, much less to use a
needle without risk of injury to one's neighbour. The weekly mend
alone, without the making of new things, means now between two and
three hundred garments in addition to the boots, which the boys
repair. As you can imagine, this is no light task and we are often
driven almost distracted. I think the stockings are the worst,
sometimes a hundred pairs to face at once! I fear we must once have
been led into making some rather pointed remarks on this subject, for
later, on going into the sewing-room, we found a slip of printed
paper, cut from a magazine, and bearing the title of an article:
"DON'T SCOLD THE CHILDREN WHEN THEY TEAR THEIR STOCKINGS."

This building rocks like a ship at sea; the roof continually leaks,
the windows are always "coming abroad," and the panes drop out at
"scattered times," while even when shut, the wind whistles through as
if to show his utter disdain of our inhospitable and paltry efforts to
keep him outside. On stormy nights, in spite of closed windows,