Sir Wilfrid Laurier in a very real sense was passionately fond of children. He relaxed to them, he loved them, and they loved him. Children seemed to get closer to “the Chief” than anyone else. There were times, in the stress of big events, when matters of policy were to be determined, when situations had to be gauged and met, when Sir Wilfrid seemed to shut himself behind an expressionless face to do his thinking. His friends and lieutenants sought counsel from him then without success. No premature intimations were forthcoming. He became to all associated with him a seeker—not a giver—of information. One left his presence, having gone for guidance, with the conviction that he had laid bare his whole mind and thought at the delicate prompting of the Chief’s skilful interrogations, but realizing that the latter had communicated nothing. At the time of the long naval debate and Parliamentary embroglio, when the threat of closures was in the air and all the strategy of statecraft was being brought into play by both parties, a Liberal caucus waited anxiously one winter morning for the advent of the leader. Newspaper-men who proceeded to the main entrance eagerly watching for his coming witnessed the septuagenarian spending the valuable moments prodding in the snow with his walking-stick and seeking to locate a “lost mitt” of an all-alone baby girl, who was crying pathetically at her loss and the cold. It was only when the missing mitten was found and restored and the child had been comforted that Sir Wilfrid turned his attention to the waiting caucus and the problems of the moment. Those who accompanied the then Prime Minister on his memorable tour of the West in the summer of 1910 will never forget an incident while he was speaking at Edmonton. So great was the crowd that had assembled in Alberta’s capital that hot August afternoon to hear his message that all attempts to hold an indoor meeting were abandoned. Sir Wilfrid spoke from a balcony at the central corner of the main thoroughfare, and windows, balconies and streets were peopled with spectators. Suddenly, in the midst of his speech he paused, and gazing over the seething mass of humanity, pointed to one of the upper windows in a block diagonally opposite to the balcony from which he spoke. A midget was seated alone on the ledge, swinging her feet over the street far below. Anxiously he inquired: “Is that little one safe?” Amid all the display and acclaim Sir Wilfrid’s eyes were on the child in danger.