But returning to my experience in the timber, I did not know whether I should be allowed to return home or not; but trusting God, I returned in the afternoon and was not molested, excepting a tongue-lashing. Not long after this our two grown sons came home on a visit, and my husband told them awful things about me, which they believed, and turned against me and doubled the persecution. They searched the house for books, Bibles, and papers, and burned them before us, also pictures of our friends. Then they tortured the little girls, trying to make them promise that they would not be Christians like their mother. Those dear boys who had stood by me in the past! How I thanked God for grace sufficient in time of trial and for the privilege of loving and praying for them. In July of our last summer there, my eldest daughter said, "I just feel like packing my trunk to go to ----." It was the town God had shown us should be our home. The next time she went for the mail, there was a letter from a sister in the town, saying that God had taken sleep from two sisters and told them to send for her, and enclosed a check for her fare. She soon afterward went to that town. Sometime after this, while the second daughter was driving for her father while husking corn, she ran into a stump and broke the wagon-tongue. Such an occurrence endangered their lives, but two men coming along just at that time spared her somewhat, and her father sent her to the house. I prayed until my faith rested on the promise for protection. That night after I had gone to bed, God inspired me with beautiful thoughts of heaven, and I got up so softly and took a pencil and paper and wrote this poem in the dark. I can not refrain from saying here, Praise the Lord for these precious things in time of trial! MY BEAUTIFUL HOME Though poets may sing of the streets of pure gold And talk of its mansions so fair, After all it is naught; the half is not told Of my beautiful home over there. Man's eye has ne'er seen nor his ear ever heard, Nor can he e'er picture the scene; The music's so rare no one can record The strains of the faithful, I ween. Though art has portrayed fair angels of light In tints that enrapture the mind; 'Tis grander by far in my home ever bright, Where the glory of God is enshrined. No; ear hath not heard, and eye hath not seen, Any thing that will ever compare With the grandeur and beauty of that heavenly scene, Of my beautiful home over there. 'Tis only by faith that gleams from the land, Where they need not the light of the sun, Can brighten the life or lighten the pain Of those who will hear the "Well done." Some day when my toiling and trials are o'er, I shall see the fair angels of light; On their wings they will bear me across to that shore Where my faith will be lost in the sight.