“A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. It made me shiver to look at its poor little face, wasted by hunger and sickness and purple with cold. The woman sat at the street corner begging, and the people went by, no one seeming to care for the helpless, starving baby in her arms. I saw a police-officer almost touch the woman as he passed. Why did he not arrest her?” “That was not his business,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “So long as she did not disturb the peace, the officer had nothing to do with her.” “Who, then, has?” “Nobody.” “Why, father!” exclaimed Edith. “Nobody?” “The woman was engaged in business. She was a beggar, and the sick, half-starved baby was her capital in trade,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “That policeman had no more authority to arrest her than he had to arrest the organ-man or the peanut-vender.” “But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. Is there no law to meet such cases?” “The poor baby has no vote,” replied Mr. Dinneford, “and law-makers don't concern themselves much about that sort of constituency; and even if they did, the executors of law would be found indifferent. They are much more careful to protect those whose business it is to make drunken beggars like the one you saw, who, if men, can vote and give them place and power. The poor baby is far beneath their consideration.” “But not of Him,” said Edith, with eyes full of tears, “who took little children in his arms and blessed them, and said, Suffer them to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” “Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom,” answered Mr. Dinneford, gravely, “but of the kingdom of this world.” A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent and thoughtful, said, with a tremor in her voice, “Father, did you see my baby?” Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, surprised and disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put the question again. “No, my dear,” he answered, with a hesitation of manner that was almost painful. After looking into his face steadily for some moments, Edith dropped her eyes to the floor, and there was a constrained silence between them for a good while. “You never saw it?” she queried, again lifting her eyes to her father's face. Her own was much paler than when she first put the question. “Never.” “Why?” asked Edith. She waited for a little while, and then said, “Why don't you answer me, father?” “It was never brought to me.” “Oh, father!” “You were very ill, and a nurse was procured immediately.” “I was not too sick to see my baby,” said Edith, with white, quivering lips. “If they had laid it in my bosom as soon as it was born, I would never have been so ill, and the baby would not have died. If--if--” She held back what she was about saying, shutting her lips tightly. Her face remained very pale and strangely agitated. Nothing more was then said.