I STARTED from Cincinnati. Only a short ride on the "Bee Line" and I reached Dayton. A beautiful little city; looking, after the greatness and the noise, and the smoke of Cincinnati, like a pretty little village nestling in among trees. Yet when one forgets the large places, Dayton is quite a city. However, it is not about the _city_ that I want to tell you, but rather about a home there. A lovely home. In the rooms are gathered all the beautiful things which go to make up a pretty house; carpets and curtains, and easy chairs and lovely plush-covered sofas, and pictures, and books, and flowers, and birds. I cannot think of anything that they lacked. Yet all these do not make lovely _homes_. I have been in places filled with all the beauties which money could buy, and arranged with all the care which refined taste could give, yet which were not homes at all, but great beautiful cold _rooms_! Haven't you been in places where the carpets were only ingrain, or perhaps rag, or where there was even no carpet at all, and the chairs were plain wooden ones, and the pictures on the walls were only a few cheap mottoes, yet which was all full of gentle words, and cheery smiles, and unselfishness in little things? Such places are sure to be homes. I have discovered that the furniture makes very little difference, after all. Well, the house at which I stopped was a _home_ in the truest sense of the word. I shall never think of the sweet Christian lady who is at its head, without feeling thankful to God for having made so good and true a woman, and given her so many beautiful things to use in making others happy. After all that, I am afraid you will be astonished that I should only tell you the story of one member of the family. But you can't think how much she interested me. I reached the home late at night and went at once to my room. In the early morning I was awakened by a loud call from a voice downstairs. "Clara!" shouted the shrill voice, then waited, and seeming to get no reply, screamed again, "Clara!" with no better success than before. This was repeated I should think a dozen times; until from being only amused I became half-vexed. I thought it very strange that in so fine a house and with so many evidences of culture, the mistress should allow a servant to stand in the hall below and scream after any one in that way. Then I wondered who "Clara" was, and why in the world she did not answer the call; it did not seem possible that she could be asleep, after her name had been rung out so often. I buried my head in the pillows and tried to take another nap; but that was impossible; there that persistent servant stood, and shouted out at intervals that one name, dwelling on each letter until it seemed to me that the name was a half-hour long! At last I arose in despair, and began to make my toilet; only hoping that "Clara's" slumbers had been disturbed as well as my own.