adopt another. He who spends money on a little child is investing it to
real purpose; and the dividends it pays in pride and happiness and
contentment are beyond computation.

Marjorie came to us when she was three years old. She bubbled over with
mirth and laughter and soothed the ache in our hearts. She filled the
little niches and comers of our lives with her sweetness, and became not
only ours in name, but ours also in love and its actualities.

There were those who suggested that we were too young to adopt a child.
They told us that the other children would undoubtedly be sent to us as
time went on. I have neither the space here nor the inclination to list
the imaginary difficulties outlined to us as the possibilities of
adoption.

But Mother and I talked it all over one evening. And we decided that we
needed Marjorie, and Marjorie needed us. As to the financial side of the
question, I smiled.

"I never heard of anyone going to the poorhouse, or into bankruptcy," I
said, "because of the money spent on a child. I fancy I can pay the
bills."

That settled it. The next evening when I came home, down the stairway
leading to our flat came the cry, "Hello, Daddy!" from one of the
sweetest little faces I have ever seen. And from that day, until God
needed her more and called her home, that "Hello, Daddy" greeted me and
made every care worth while.

The little home had begun to grow in beauty once more. That first