“To all those who may dwell therein from generation to generation may it be a house of God, a gate of heaven.

“For every house is builded by some man, but he that built all things is God, seeing that he giveth to every one of us life and breath and all good things.”

Mother Carey spoke these words so simply and naturally, as she looked towards her neighbors one after another, with her hand resting on Peter’s curly head, that they hardly knew whether to keep quiet or say Amen.

“Was that the Bible, Osh?” whispered Bill Harmon.

“Don’t know; ’most everything she says sounds like the Bible or Shakespeare to me.”

In the hush that followed Mother Carey’s salutation Gilbert approached with a basket over his arm, and quickly and neatly laid a little fire behind the brass andirons on the hearth.  Then Nancy handed Peter a loosely bound sheaf, saying:  “To light this fire I give you a torch.  In it are herbs of the field for health of the body, a fern leaf for grace, a sprig of elm for peace, one of oak for strength, with evergreen to show that we live forever in the deeds we have done.  To these we have added rosemary for remembrance and pansies for thoughts.”

Peter crouched on the hearth and lighted the fire in three places, then handed the torch to Kathleen as he crept again into his mother’s lap, awed into complete silence by the influence of his own mystic rite.  Kathleen waved the torch to and fro as she recited some beautiful lines written for some such purpose as that which called them together to-night.

      “Burn, fire, burn! 
    Flicker, flicker, flame! 
  Whose hand above this blaze is lifted
  Shall be with touch of magic gifted,
  To warm the hearts of chilly mortals
  Who stand without these open portals. 
  The touch shall draw them to this fire,
      Nigher, nigher,
      By desire. 
  Whoso shall stand on this hearth-stone,
      Flame-fanned,
  Shall never, never stand alone. 
  Whose home is dark and drear and old,
      Whose hearth is cold,
      This is his own. 
  Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame! 
      Burn, fire, burn!"[1]

[Footnote 1:  Florence Converse.]

Next came Olive’s turn to help in the ceremonies.  Ralph Thurston had found a line of Latin for them in his beloved Horace:  Tibi splendet focus (For you the hearth-fire shines).  Olive had painted the motto on a long narrow panel of canvas, and, giving it to Mr. Popham, stood by the fireside while he deftly fitted it into the place prepared for it.  The family had feared that he would tell a good story when he found himself the centre of attraction, but he was as dumb as Peter, and for the same reason.

“Olive has another lovely gift for the Yellow House,” said Mother Carey, rising, “and to carry out the next part of the programme we shall have to go in procession upstairs to my bedroom.”