?neHOVSE 9^ HA TFYHOVRS 



DV SU3IEB0LrCHELLE WIGHT 



Chapter I. 



IT was April in a beautiful Georgia city. 

 The atmosphere was balmy and sweet 

 with the vague fragrance of a thousand 

 blossoms — blossoms everywhere^ in the 

 gardens and parks, crowning the pear and 

 maple trees, and making a delicate insinu- 

 ation of purple high up among the grace- 

 ful leaves of the china trees. The House 

 of Happy Hours seemed almost embowered 

 in the wealth of climbing roses on its ve- 

 randas — golden Marechal ^^iels, crimson 

 Marie Henriettes, and blush Devoniensis. 

 Mrs. Waring paused a moment on the 

 doorstep to look above and about her. 



"Oh, you beauties !" she cried aloud, 

 and caught her breath in something 

 very like a sob, as she broke one 

 exquisite bud and thrust it in among 

 the delicate laces at her throat. She 

 half turned to go back into the house 

 at the sound of a child's cr}^, but it was 

 hushed, and she went on down to the 

 violet-bordered walk. It was a very lovely 

 garden scene on which her gaze rested. The 

 luxuriant, blue-starred violets at her feet 

 outlined a wide circle of velvet grass im- 

 mediately in front of the doorstep, and 

 long rose borders stretched away on either 

 side. A great banana shrub stood on one 

 side near the gateway, and on the other 

 a graceful tea olive, each laden with fra- 

 grant bloom, and here and there among the 

 roses were dotted rare shrubs which she 

 had gathered from time to time; azaleas 

 pink and white, peonies, so unusual in 

 that climate, were blooming, and on slen- 

 der trellises a few large-flowered clematis 

 had been coaxed to grow. Back, where a 

 low fence divided off the garden, stretched 

 long, splendid rows of sweet peas, nidnod- 

 ding with every passing breeze their mar- 

 vels of daintiness and grace. 

 Mrs. Waring sighed as she looked, and 



her eyes were sad with the look one sees 

 sometimes when long good-bys are being 

 spoken. She had planted every seed, every 

 root, with her own hands, had watched 

 their growth with loving eyes, and, in 

 tending them in the dewy mornings, had 

 cleared away many a cobweb out of her 

 brain, had worked away many a petty 

 worry, and had gained strength and pa- 

 tience for the cares of her life. The gar- 

 den had been her heart's rest for years. 

 Her babies one by one had toddled about 

 in it, and rolled over and over on the grass 

 in the cool of the afternoons. As she 

 thought of them now, sturdy little boys 

 and girls, the sadness deepened in her 

 face. 



"It means so much," she said to herself. 

 "It hurts, oh, it hurts, to give up my dear 

 home. But what will it mean for the 

 children not to have a home ?" 



Mrs. Waring was descended from a race 

 of people who had ever felt it beneath 

 their dignity to dwell upon the lands of 

 others. The calamity which had made 

 necessary the sale of this small home was 

 causing more than the present pain of 

 parting. It was wrenching out of her soul 

 traditions she had always known and re- 

 spected, and forcing her to look out upon 

 life from a different viewpoint. She had 

 been accustomed, in unacknowledged nar- 

 rowness, to think of people who lived in 

 rented homes as shiftless individuals, and 

 it was very hard for her to adjust herself 

 to the new conditions which confronted 

 her. 



She was still pacing slowly up and down 

 when the sunset had deepened into twi- 

 light, and her husband entered the gate. 

 One glance, and his worn face reflected 

 the bitterness in her own. She laid her 

 hand on his arm and drew him along. 



"Come, walk with me a little while,'' 

 she said, "and, Gilbert; let me be sad just 



