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shipbuilder Lewis Farmington. Today, less than six months from the time the idea was first conceived and presented to him, Whittaker House would officially open its doors.
    Already the city’s newest children’s home was licensed, at least partially renovated and furnished, and well on its way to being populated with its first young residents.
    Farmington was also responsible for the dedication service, at which Pastor Jess Dalton officiated. The ceremony was held outdoors, on the wide front porch of the building. Despite the sweltering heat, an impressive number of philanthropists, clergy, and other notable dignitaries were in attendance.
    When the speeches finally concluded and the benediction had been intoned, Evan Whittaker, the new establishment’s superintendent, was presented with a sizable donation collected from various churches and private organizations throughout the city.
    This, too, had been the doing of Lewis Farmington.
    The new superintendent accepted the contribution with his customary British dignity and aplomb. Only the six small boys standing behind him—the first residents of the new children’s home—detected the slight shaking of Evan Whittaker’s legs.
    Those in the crowd who knew him best, however—including his frail but beaming wife—could not help but note the slender Englishman’s flush of embarrassment. But although he stuttered rather badly over his speech of acceptance, his final words came as a prayer, clear and unwavering:
    â€œIt is my deepest hope that God will make this place a house of refuge, where all His children, regardless of color or creed, may find safe shelter and nurture in His love.”

    Michael and Sara Burke were the first to shake Evan’s hand after the ceremony, although Sara hung back for a moment before adding her good wishes to Michael’s. For her, the proceedings had been fraught with emotion. In fact, the intensity of her response surprised her.
    She had witnessed such incredible change in the lives of Evan and Nora Whittaker since that day on the Manhattan docks when they first arrived in New York—frightened, ailing immigrants who had left home and country for the promise of America. In scarcely more than three years, the two had endured illness and tragedy, broken dreams and grievous loss. Struggle and suffering had marked their experience of the United States in ways no one could have foreseen.
    Yet through it all Evan and Nora had believed in America’s promise, had clung to that dream and to their God’s faithfulness. And today, in spite of overwhelming obstacles and reverses, the promise had been fulfilled beyond their dreams.
    Today Sara realized that the promise had not been for Evan and Nora alone, but for the children of New York City as well. Like a shining, golden gift, Whittaker House held forth the possibility of hope to those who had known little but despair in their young lives. Just as America offered the hope of survival and a better life to untold thousands of immigrants, this large, solid brick building extended the hope of survival and a better life to the unloved, forgotten children of New York.
    Hope. Surely the word itself was one of the loveliest songs of the human heart.
    Blinking back tears, she watched Michael put a hand to Evan’s shoulder. “A grand day, Evan,” he said, grinning broadly. “You and Sara’s father have done a remarkable job.”
    Evan shook his head. “ Mr. Farmington has d-done a remarkable job—he and the Lord. I’m still rather stunned b-by it all, I m-must confess.”
    â€œIt’s such a wonderful idea, Evan,” Sara said, smiling at his characteristic self-effacement. “It must give you great joy to see your dream finally become reality.”
    He looked at her. “But it wasn’t m-my dream, you know. Whittaker House was God’s idea, not m-mine. I would never have had the boldness to conceive of