ut what they felt or fancied
because there was so little that was tangible and substantial for them
to see. Of all the institutions man has made--the state, the church, his
commerce, his schools,--the home is by far the most spiritual. Its
successes and its failures are never material. They are never evidenced
in any sort of worldly goods. Only in the hearts of those who dwell in a
home, or of those to whom it is dear, do its triumphs and its defeats
register themselves. But in Tom Van Dorn's philosophy of life small
space was left for things of the spirit alone, to register. He was
trying with all his might to build a home upon material things. So above
all he built his home around a beautiful woman. Then he lavished upon
her and about the house wherein she dwelled, beautiful objects. He was
proud of their cost. Their value in dollars and cents gave these objects
their chief value in his balance sheet of gain or less in footing up his
account with his home. And because what he had was expensive, he prized
it. Possibly because he had bought his wife's devotion, at some material
sacrifice to his own natural inclinations toward the feminine world, he
listed her high in the assets of the home; and so in the only way he
could love, he loved her jealously. She and the rugs and pictures and
furniture--all were dear to him, as chattels which he had bought and
paid for and could brag about. And because he was too well bred to brag,
the repression of that natural instinct he added to the cost of the
items listed,--rugs, pictures, wife, furniture, house, trees, lot, and
blue grass lawn. So when toward the end of the first year of his
marriage, he found that actually he could turn his head and follow with
his eyes a pretty petticoat going down Market Street, and still fool his
wife; when he found he could pry open the eyes of Miss Mauling at the
office again with his old ogle, and still have the beautiful love which
he had bought with self-denial, its value dropped.

And his wife, who felt in her soul her value passing in the heart she
loved, strove to find her fault and to correct it. Daily her devotion
manifested itself more plainly. Daily she lived more singly to the
purpose of her soul. And daily she saw that purpose becoming a vain
pursuit.

Outwardly the home was unchanged as this tragedy was played within the
two hearts. The same scenery surrounded the players. The same voices
spoke, in the same tones, the same words of en