"What a travesty on the word 'home,'" murmured Dru, as he saw for the
first time the interior of an East Side tenement. Mrs. Turner lay
propped in bed, a ghost of what was once a comely woman. She was barely
thirty, yet poverty, disease and the city had drawn their cruel lines
across her face. Gloria went to her bedside and gently pressed the
fragile hand. She dared not trust herself to speak. And this, she
thought, is within the shadow of my home, and I never knew. "Oh, God,"
she silently prayed, "forgive us for our neglect of such as these."

Gloria and Philip did all that was possible for the Turners, but their
helping hands came too late to do more than to give the mother a measure
of peace during the last days of her life. The promise of help for the
children lifted a heavy load from her heart. Poor stricken soul, Zelda
Turner deserved a better fate. When she married Len Turner, life seemed
full of joy. He was employed in the office of a large manufacturing
concern, at what seemed to them a munificent salary, seventy-five
dollars a month.

Those were happy days. How they saved and planned for the future! The
castle that they built in Spain was a little home on a small farm near a
city large enough to be a profitable market for their produce. Some
place where the children could get fresh air, wholesome food and a place
in which to grow up. Two thousand dollars saved, would, they thought, be
enough to make the start. With this, a farm costing four thousand
dollars could be bought by mortgaging it for half. Twenty-five dollars a
month saved for six years, would, with interest, bring them to their
goal.

Already more than half the sum was theirs. Then came disaster. One