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all this—for ever—is where our love is. And now, let us sing.”

They stood up, holding hands, and the childish voices rose in a clear, steady “My Country, ’tis of Thee!”

I cried softly as I moved about in the next room and thought of the transplanted morning glories. “Is it right,” I wondered, “to plant a little unasked flower in a garden of love and happiness, from which it must soon be wrenched away, only for another, and a dwarfed, start in strange, new surroundings? The garden had much to give of strength and inspiration, but is it worth the cost? Oh, is it worth the cost?”