When they were gone, Sue looked down at the check in her hand. Yesterday, in the heat of a just resentment, she had boasted a new freedom. What had come of it was twelve hours without the presence of her mother—twelve hours shared with Hattie and Farvel.

They had been happy hours, for strangely enough Hattie had needed little cheering. It was Farvel who easily accomplished wonders with her. Sue did not know what passed between the clergyman and the bride-who-was-not-to-be during a long conference in the library. She had heard only the low murmur of their voices. And once she had heard Hattie laugh. When the two finally emerged, it was plain that Hattie had been weeping, and Farvel was noticeably kind to her, even tender. At dinner he was unwontedly cheerful, relieved at the whole solving of the old, sad mystery, though worried not a little by Clare's disappearance. After dinner he had taken himself out and away in a futile search that had lasted the whole night.

But happy as Sue had been since parting with her mother at Tottie's, nevertheless she felt strangely shaken, as if, somehow, she had been swept from her bearings. She attributed this to the fact that never before had she and her mother spent a night under different roofs. Until Sue's twenty-fourth birthday, there had been the daily partings that come with a girl's school duties. (Sue had continued through a business college after leaving high school.) But beyond the short trip to school and back, Mrs. Milo did not permit her daughter to go anywhere alone, urging Sue's youth as her excuse.

They shopped together; they sat side by side in the Milo pew at St. Giles; and after Sue's sixteenth birthday, though Wallace might have to be left at home with his father, Mrs. Milo did not permit her daughter to accept invitations, even to the home of a girl friend, unless she herself was included. It was said—and in praise of Mrs. Milo—that here was one woman who took "good care of her girl."

When Horatio Milo died (an expert accountant, he had no resistance with which to combat a sudden illness that was aggravated by a wound received in the Civil War), Mrs. Milo clung more closely than ever—if that was possible—to Sue. To the daughter, this was explained by her mother's pathetic grief; and by her dependence. For Sue was now, all at once, the breadwinner of the little family.

At this juncture, Mrs. Milo pleaded hard in behalf of an arrangement for earning that would not take her daughter from her even through a short business day. Sue met her mother's wishes by setting up an office in the living-room of their small apartment. Here she took some dictation—her mother seated close by, busy with her sewing, but not too busy to be graciousness itself to those men and women who desired Sue's services. There was copying to be done, too. The girl became a sort of general secretary, her clients including an author, a college professor, and a clergyman.

Thus for six years. Then, at thirty years of age, she went to fill the position at the Rectory. Her father had been a vestryman of the Church, and she had been christened there—as a small, freckle-faced girl in pigtails, fresh from a little village in northern New York.

And now, at this day that was so late, Sue knew that between her and her mother things could never again be as they had been. Their differences lay deep: and could not be adjusted. Mrs. Milo had always demanded from her daughter the unquestioning obedience of a child; she would not—and could not—alter her attitude after so many years.

But there was a reason for their parting that was more powerful than any other: down from its high pedestal had come the image of Mrs. Milo that her daughter had so long, and almost blindly, cherished. All at once, as if indeed her eyes had been suddenly and miraculously opened, Sue understood all the hypocrisy of her mother's gentleness, the affection that was only simulated, the smiles that were only muscle deep.

How it had all happened, Sue as yet scarcely knew. But in effect it had been like an avalanche—an avalanche that is built up, flake by flake, over a long period, and then gives way through even so light a touch as the springing to flight of a mountain bird. The Milo avalanche—it was made up of countless small tyrannies and scarcely noticeable acts of selfishness adroitly disguised. But touched into motion by Mrs. Milo's frank cruelty, it had swept upon the two women, destroying all the falsities that had hitherto made any thought of separation impossible. As Sue fingered the check, she realized that her life and her mother's had been changed. It was likely that they might go on living together. Though they were two women who belonged apart.

"Why, Miss Susan,"—Farvel had come across the lawn to her noiselessly—"what's this I hear? That you're going away."

She rose, a little flurried. "I—I suppose I must."

"And you've bought all these for—for the child," he added, catching sight of the dolls and toys.

"It'll be nice to give them to her. But I'd hoped I could be near Barbara for a long time to come. I hoped I could help to make up to the little one for—for anything she's lacked." She shook her head. "But you see, my mother depends on me so. She wouldn't go without me. She's too old to go just with Mrs. Balcome. And—and if it's my duty——" At her feet was that box which Mrs. Balcome had thrown down on hearing that it contained something which should be put upon ice. Sue picked the box up and began to undo the string.

Farvel stood in silence for a little. Then, finally, "I—I want to tell you something before you go. I'm afraid it will surprise you. And—and"—coloring bashfully—"I hardly know how to begin."

"Ye-e-es?" Sue was embarrassed, too, and hid her confusion by taking from the box a bride's bouquet that was destined not to figure in any marriage ceremony. At sight of the flowers, her embarrassment grew.

Farvel began to speak very low.—"After Laura left, I didn't think of a second marriage—not even when her brother had the divorce registered. I felt I couldn't settle down again and be happy when I didn't know her fate. She might be alive, you see. And I am an Episcopal clergyman. Still—I wasn't contented. I had my dreams—of a home, and a wife——" He paused.

"A wife who would really care," she said.

"Yes. And a woman I could love. Because, I know I'm to blame for Laura's going—oh, yes, to a very great extent. I didn't love her enough. If I had, she never would have left—never would have done anything to hurt me. If I were to marry again, it would have to be someone I cared for a great deal. That's what I—I want to plead now when I tell you—when I confess. I want to plead that this new love I feel is so great—almost beyond my—my power, Miss Susan."

She did not look at him. The bouquet in her hand trembled.

He went on. "I oughtn't to find it hard to tell you anything. I've always felt that there was such sympathy between us. As if you understand me; and I would never fail to understand you."

"I have felt it, too."

Now she lifted her eyes—but to the windows of the drawing-room. From the nearest, a face was quickly withdrawn—her mother's. She stepped back, widening the distance between herself and Farvel.

"Susan!" It was Mrs. Milo, calling as if from a distance.

Instantly, Farvel also fell back. And scarcely knowing why she did it,
Sue put the bride's bouquet behind her.

Mrs. Milo came out. Her eyes had a peculiar glitter, but her voice was gentle enough. "Susan dear, why do you go flying away just when you're wanted? Why don't you come and help your poor motherkins as you promised? You don't want me to do everything?"

"No, mother."

"Then please go at once and help Mrs. Balcome with the packing. My things go into the two small wardrobe trunks. You'll have to use that big trunk that was your dear father's. Now hurry!"

"Yes, mother." Sue attempted a detour, the bouquet still out of her mother's sight.

"What are you trying to conceal, dear?"

"It's—it's Hattie's bouquet."

A look of mingled fear and resentment—a look that Sue understood; next, breathing hard, "What are you doing with it? You don't want it! Give it to me!" Mrs. Milo caught the flowers from her daughter's hands and threw them upon the grass. "Now go and do what I've asked you to!" She pointed.

Sue glanced at Farvel, who was staring at the elder woman in amazed displeasure. "I'll be back," she said significantly. There was a trace of yesterday's rebellion in her manner as she went out.

As the drawing-room door closed, Mrs. Milo's manner also underwent a change. She hastened to Farvel, her eyes brimming with tears, her lips trembling. "Oh, Mr. Farvel," she cried, "she's all I've got in this world. She's the very staff of my life! And my heart is set on her going abroad with me! It'll be an expensive trip, but I'm an old woman, Mr. Farvel, and I can't take that long journey without Sue! I know you're against me for what I did yesterday—for what I said to your wife. But I felt she'd separate me from Sue—that she'd put Sue against me. And, oh, don't punish me for it! Don't take my daughter away from me! Oh, don't! Don't!" She caught at his hand, broke down completely, and sobbed.

"Why, Mrs. Milo!" exclaimed Farvel, not understanding. "What do you mean?—take her away?"

"I mean marry her!—Oh, she's my main hold on life!"

He laughed. "My dear, dear lady, I haven't the least intention in the world of asking your daughter to marry me."

"No?" She stopped her weeping.

"None whatever. How can I marry—while Laura is alive?"

"And—and"—doubtfully—"you don't even—love her?"

"Will it make your mind entirely easy if I tell you that I—I care for someone else?" He blushed like a boy.

"Oh, Alan Farvel, I'm so glad! So glad!" Her gratitude was spontaneous. "And I wish you could marry! You deserve the very best kind of a wife!"

"You flatter me."

"Not at all! You're a good man. You'd make some girl very happy. I've always said, 'What a pity Mr. Farvel isn't a married man'—not knowing, of course, that you'd ever been one.—Could I trouble you to hand me that bouquet?"

"Certainly." Farvel picked up the bride's bouquet from where she had thrown it and gave it to her.

"Thank you. A moment ago, I found the perfume of it quite overpowering. But the blossoms are lovely, aren't they?—So you do care for someone? And"—she smiled in her best playfully teasing manner—"is the 'someone' a secret?"

"Well,——"

"Ah, you don't want to tell me! I'm an old lady, Mr. Farvel; I know how to keep a secret."

"Oh, I'm going to tell you. Though you're going to think very badly of me."

"Badly? For being in love?—You will have to wait."

"For being in love with a certain young lady."

"Ho-ho! That's very unlikely. Now, who is it? I'm all eagerness!"
She smiled at him archly.

He waited a moment; then, "I love Hattie Balcome."

"Hattie?" She found it impossible of comprehension.

"Hattie."

"Well,—that is—news."

He bowed, a little surprised. He had expected anger and vituperation.

"Of course, my son—— But as that can't be. And Sue—does Sue know?"

"I was just about to tell her."

She turned, calling: "Susan! Susan! _Su_san!"

There was a rustle at the door—a smothered laugh. Sue appeared. "Who calls the Queen of Lower Egypt?" she hailed airily, striking an attitude. She had changed her dress. This was the "other one" given her by Balcome—a confection all silver and chiffon. And this was Sue at her youngest.

"Oh, my dear," cried her mother, "it's lovely!"

Startled by the unexpected admiration, Sue relaxed the pictorial attitude. "You—you really like it, mother?"

"I think it's adorable!" vowed Mrs. Milo. "A perfect dream!—Don't you think so, Mr. Farvel?"

He smiled. "I've never seen Miss Susan look more charming," he declared.

His compliment heightened the color in Sue's cheeks. "I—I just happened across it," she explained, "so I thought I'd try it on."

Mrs. Milo prepared to go. "By the way, Susan," she said. "I've changed my mind about Europe."

"You're not going?" Sue looked pleased.

"Oh, yes, I'm going. But—I've decided not to take you."

"Oh." Sue looked down, that her mother and Farvel might not guess at her relief and her happiness.

Her mother went on: "It's quite true what you said yesterday. You have been tied to me too closely. We need a change from each other." She spoke with great gentleness. Smiling at Sue, the elder woman noted how cruelly the bright sunlight of the Close brought out all the lines in her daughter's face, emphasized the aging of the throat and the graying of the hair.

"Besides," continued the silvery voice, "it would be a very expensive trip—with four in the party."

"Four?"

"Poor dear Wallace, I'm going to take him with me. His happiness is ruined, and where would he go without me? Not to Peru—alone. I couldn't permit that. He is absolutely broken-hearted. I must try to heal his wound.—Oh, I'm not criticizing the way Hattie has treated him. But his mother must not be the one to fail him now,—the darling!"

"I want you to make any arrangement, any decision, that will mean comfort and happiness to you and Wallace," said Sue. And felt all at once a sudden, new, sweet sense of freedom.

"And I feel that Mrs. Balcome and I will need a man along," added Mrs.
Milo. "If you were to go also——"

"I am just as satisfied not to."

"—It would take more money than we shall have. And as Hattie's mother is going, doubtless Hattie will be glad enough to have you here to chaperone her."

"Yes."

"But then do anything you like. You'll remember that yesterday you twitted me about having to be waited on. I'll prove to you, my dear, that I can get on without you."

"Yes," said Sue, again. "And for what it would cost to take me, you can hire the best of attention."

"That's true, though I hadn't thought of it. But for a woman of my years, I'm very active. I need no attention, really.—Just see, will you, if there isn't a hook loose here on this shoulder? Mrs. Balcome was downstairs when I dressed."

Sue looked. "It's all right, mother dear."

"And this bonnet"—she gave it a petulant twitch—"you know it's heavier on one side than the other. I told you that when you were making it."

"I'm sorry, mother." Sue adjusted the bonnet with deft hands.

"And now I have a thousand things to do!" It was like a dismissal of Sue. Two things had come between them: on Sue's part, it was the sudden knowledge of her mother's character—of its depths and its shallows; while on the part of the elder woman, it was injured pride, and never-to-be-forgotten mortification.

Mrs. Milo floated away to the door. "And Mr. Farvel has a great secret to tell you," she chirped as she went; "—a wonderful secret." She turned to blink both eyes at the clergyman roguishly. "He's going to confess to you." Then she held out the bride's bouquet, and with such a peremptory gesture that Sue came to take it from her. Next she shook a finger at Farvel. "Now out with it, Alan!" she commanded.

"Alan!" gasped Sue, under her breath. She gave her mother a tiny push.
"Yes, go, mother! Hurry! You're wanted at the telephone!"

"I'm wanted at the steamship office," answered Mrs. Milo. "Oh, think of it!—Egypt! The Holy Land! The Garden of Eden!"

Left alone, both Farvel and Sue found the moment embarrassing. She went back to the sun-dial, picking at the flowers of the bouquet. He stood apart, hands rammed in pockets.

Presently, "Well, I—I don't have to go to Europe." She smiled at him shyly.

"No. That's—that's good."

"And—and when I went out you—you were saying——"

It helped him. "I was trying to—to make a clean breast of something," he began, faltering. "But—but—oh, she can tell you best." He looked up at the window of his study. "Hattie!" he called. "Hattie!"

"Yes, Alan!" A rose fell upon the grass; then Hattie looked down at them, radiant and laughing, her fair hair blowing about her face.

"Come here, little woman."

"All right." The fair head disappeared.

"Hattie!" Sue was like one in a dream.

"You're—you're shocked. But wait——"

"No—no. That is,—not the way you mean." Then as the truth came to her, she went unsteadily to a bench, sat, and leaned her head on a hand. Now she understood why her mother was willing to leave her behind!

Hattie came tearing across the grass to her. "Oh, Sue! Oh, you're crying! Oh, dear Sue, you're crying!" She knelt, her arms about the elder woman.

"Of course I'm crying," answered Sue. "That's what I always do when
I—I see that someone is happy."

"Oh, Sue! Sue!" The girl clung to her. "Don't think too badly of me. It came out last night—when Alan and I were talking. I told him I didn't love Wallace the way I should—oh, Sue, you know I never have—and that it was because I loved someone else. And, oh, he grew so—so white—he was so hurt—and I told him—I had to. It just poured out of my soul, Sue. It had been kept in so long."

"You darling girl!" They clung to each other, murmuring.

"Now you know why I was so—so broken up yesterday," explained Farvel.
"It wasn't—Laura. It was Hattie."

"Oh, we've cared for each other from the first!" confessed Hattie. "And we've settled how it is all going to be. I'll stay in New York, where we can be near each other, and see each other now and then—oh, we shall be only friends, Sue. But I'd rather have his friendship than the love of any other man I've ever known. And we'll be patient. And if we can't ever be more than friends, we'll be glad just for that. See how happy you've been, Sue, with no one—all these years. And here I shall have Alan."

"Ah, my dear girl!" exclaimed Sue. She stroked the bright hair. "Ah, my dear girl!"

"Oh, Sue, you mean you haven't been happy? Why don't you marry?"

Sue laughed. "I? What an idea! Why, I don't think I've ever even had the thought. Anyhow, the years have gone—the inclination is gone, if it ever was there. I'm too old." Then with sudden and passionate earnestness, "But you two." She rose and took each by a hand, and led them to the dial. "Read! Read what is written in the stone!—Tempus Fugit—time flies! Oh, take your happiness while you can! Don't wait. Oh, don't!—We must find a way somehow. The Church—we must see the proper authorities—oh, it isn't right that you two should be punished——"

"Momsey!" Peter, the pale, was calling from the drawing-room door.
"There's a gentleman——"

A man appeared behind the boy, and pushed past into the Close—a young man, unshaven and haggard, with bloodshot eyes.

"Is there something I can do for you?" asked Farvel, quickly. He hastened toward the visitor, who looked as if he had suddenly gone mad.

"Hull is my name," announced the man; "—Felix Hull."

"Oh, yes," said Sue, eagerly. She signed to Hattie to go, and the girl hastened away through the door under the wedding-bell.

"You have news?" questioned Farvel.

Hull crossed the lawn to the dial. He walked slowly, like an old man. And his shoulders were bent. His derby hat was off, and he clutched it in two shaking hands.

"Tell us," bade Sue. "It's—bad news?"

"Yes."

"Take your time," she added kindly.

"Yesterday—just before you saw her—I was there. She was—well, you know. She begged me to go—and keep away from the house. That made me suspicious. I told her I wouldn't come back. Well, I didn't. Because I never left. I knew she wasn't telling me the truth—I beg your pardon, sir.—So I hung around. I saw you all go in. After a little, I saw her come out—on the run. I followed. She went about twenty blocks——"

"Where?"

"You're Miss Milo, aren't you?"

"Susan Milo."

"She spoke of you—oh, so—so loving. Well, it was a girl's club—called the Gramercy. I knew it well because we'd met there many a time. I went in. There was a new maid on hand, but I saw Clare. She came right away, like as if she was more than glad to have a talk. I didn't expect that, so I'd brought along a canary—to make her think it was hers—the one she'd left behind, you see,—so she couldn't just refuse to see me. Well, we talked. There wasn't any quarreling. She wasn't a bit broke up—that surprised me. And it threw me clean off my guard. She was highty-tighty, as you might say, and I'll admit it hurt. We shook hands though, when I went, but she didn't ask me to stay to tea." He turned to Farvel. "One thing she said about the child she wanted you to know."

"What?"

"It's not your daughter, sir."

"Ah."

"And I hear from the St. Clair woman that the little one isn't as old as Clare said. So——"

"I understand."

"Well, this morning, when I woke up—I didn't sleep much to speak of last night—I got to thinking about—her. And I made up my mind that I'd go look her up, and—and be a friend to her anyhow." His voice broke. "I was fond of her, Miss Milo."

"She was gone?"

He nodded. "She'd been gone since the night before. Went out, the maid said, with no hat on and a letter in her hand—for the post. And she hadn't come back. I tell you, that worried me. I was half-crazy." He tried to control his voice, to keep back the tears.

"Then it's very bad news," ventured Farvel. He laid a hand on the other man's sleeve.

"I went over to the St. Clair house," Hull went on. "Clare hadn't been there. Then—I knew. So I went to the one place—that was likely——"

"You mean——" asked Farvel. "Oh, not that! Not that!"

"She was there. She'd spoken about the river. That's why I was sure."

"The river!" gasped Sue. "Oh, what are you saying?"

"She'd done as she said," answered Hull, quietly.

Sue sank to a bench. "Oh, that cry of hers, yesterday!" she reminded, breaking down. "Do you remember, Mr. Farvel? When she saw you—'It's all over! It's all over!' Oh, why did I let her out of my sight!"

"It's my fault," declared Hull, hoarsely. "I was too hard on her. Too hard." He turned away.

Farvel went to him and held out his hand. Hull took it, and they stood in silence for a long moment. Then Hull drew back. There was a queer, distorted smile on his face. "This comes of a man's thinking he's smart," he declared. "I wanted to show her I was on—instead of letting her explain it all to me. But I've always been like that—too smart—too smart." He turned and went out, walking unsteadily.

It was Sue who broke the news to Hattie. And when the latter had left to rejoin her mother at the hotel (for it was agreed that it would be better if Farvel and the girl did not see each other again until later). Sue came back into the Close—to wait for Barbara.

She waited beside the dial. There was nothing girl-like in her posture. Her shoulders were as bent as Hull's had been. The high color was gone from her face. And the gray eyes showed no look of youth. She felt forsaken, and old, and there was an ache in her throat.

"Well, the poor trapped soul is gone," she said presently, out loud to herself. She looked down at the dial. "Time is not for her any more. But rest—and peace."

What changes had come while just these last twenty-four hours were flying! while the shadow on that dial had made its single turn!

"And here you are, Susan, high and dry." She had wept for another; she laughed at herself. "Here you are, as Ikey says, 'All fixed up, und by your lonesomes.' But never mind any lamentations, Susan." For her breast was heaving in spite of herself. "Your hands are free—don't forget that? And you can do l-l-l-lots of helpful things—for your pocket is lined. And there must be something ahead for you, Susan! There must be s-s-s-something!"

"Miss Susan!" Someone had come from the drawing-room.

"Dora!" But she kept her face turned away, lest she betray her tears.

"It is your humble servant," acknowledged Dora.

"Well, my humble servant, listen to me: I want you to pack my things into that old trunk of father's. And put my typewriter into its case, and screw the cover down. And when I send you word, you'll bring both to me. But—no one is to know where you come."

Dora's eyes bulged with the very mystery of it—the excitement. "Miss Susan," she vowed gravely, "I shall follow your instructions if my life is spared!"

"And now—bring the little one."

"In all my orphanage experience," confided Dora, delaying a moment to impart this important news, "I've never heard so much mother-talk. Since last night, she's not stopped for one second! I gave her a hot lemonade to get her to sleep. And she was awake this morning when it was still dark. I think"—with feeling—"that if she doesn't get her mother pretty soon, she'll—she'll——" But words failed her. She wagged her head and went out.

Sue stood for a moment, looking straight before her, her eyes wide and grave. Presently, a smile lighted them, and softened all her face. She turned. Her hat and the long coat were on the bench with the toys. She went to put them on, buttoning the coat carefully over the silver gown. Next, she took from a pocket the ring that her brother had given her. She held it up for the sun; to shine upon it. Then, very deliberately, she slipped it upon the third finger of her left hand.

A movement within the house, a patter of small feet at the drawing-room door, and Sue turned. There stood a little girl in a dress of faded gingham. Down her back by a string hung a shabby hat. But her shoes were new and shining.

In one hand she carried a doll.

She glanced up and around—at the ivy-grown wall of the Church, at the stained-glass windows glowing in the light, at the darting birds, the wedding-bell, the massed flowers and palms; and down at the grass, so neat and vividly green, and cool. Last of all, she looked at Sue.

Sue knelt, and held out both hands, smilingly, invitingly; then waited, dropping her arms to her sides again.

Barbara came nearer, but paused once more, and the brown eyes studied the gray. This for a long moment, when the child smiled back at Sue, as if reassured, and nodded confidingly.

"Oh, this is a beautiful garden," she said. "And after today, I'm going to live where there's flowers all the time! My mother, she's come back from Africa. My father hasn't, because he's got to hunt lions. But my mother and me, we're going to live in a little cottage in—in, well, some place. And there's a garden a-a-all around the cottage,"—she made a sweeping gesture with one short arm—"a garden of roses! And I'm going to have my mother every day. And she loves me! And she's good, and brave, and sweet, and pretty."

At that moment, Sue Milo was beautiful. All the tenderness of a heart starved of its rightful love looked from her eyes. And her face shone as if lighted by a flame. "I—love you!" she said tremulously.

"Do you?"—there was an answering look of love in the eyes of the child.

"Oh, so tenderly!"

The little face sobered. The small figure moved forward a step. "I'm—I'm glad"—almost under her breath. "Because—because I love you, too." Then coming still closer, and looking earnestly into those eyes so full of gentle sweetness, "Who—are—you?"

"Barbara,"—Sue's arms went out again, yearningly—"Barbara, I—am your mother."

"Mother!"—the cry rang through the Close. The child flung herself into those waiting arms, clasping Sue with her own. "Oh, mother! Mother! Mother!"

"My baby! My baby!"

Now past the open door of the Church, walking two and two in their white cottas, came the choir. And their voices, high and clear, sang that verse of Ikey's song which Sue loved best—

"O happy harbor of God's Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In Thee no sorrow can be found,
Nor grief, nor care, nor toil!"

Before the song was done, Barbara's hat was on, and with "Lolly-Poppins" and the woolly lamb under an arm; with Sue similarly burdened with the Kewpie, the new doll, and the duck that could quack, the two went, hand in hand, across the lawn to that little white door through which forsaken babies had often come, but through which one lovingly claimed was now to go. And the little white door opened to the touch of Sue's hand—and through it, to a new life and a new happiness; to service sweet beyond words, went a new mother—and with her, a new-found daughter.

*******

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The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official page at /about/contact

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit /fundraising/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: