Mr. Button’s eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partly crammed into one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy years of age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a long smoke-coloured beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Button with dim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question. “Am I mad?” thundered Mr. Button, his terror resolving into rage. “Is this some ghastly hospital joke? “It doesn’t seem like a joke to us,” replied the nurse severely. “And I don’t know whether you’re mad or not--but that is most certainly your child.” The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Button’s forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake--he was gazing at a man of threescore and ten--a _baby_ of threescore and ten, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the crib in which it was reposing. The old man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke in a cracked and ancient voice. “Are you my father?” he demanded. Mr. Button and the nurse started violently. “Because if you are,” went on the old man querulously, “I wish you’d get me out of this place--or, at least, get them to put a comfortable rocker in here.” “Where in God’s name did you come from? Who are you?” burst out Mr. Button frantically. “I can’t tell you _exactly_ who I am,” replied the querulous whine, “because I’ve only been born a few hours--but my last name is certainly Button.” “You lie! You’re an impostor!” The old man turned wearily to the nurse. “Nice way to welcome a new-born child,” he complained in a weak voice. “Tell him he’s wrong, why don’t you?” “You’re wrong, Mr. Button,” said the nurse severely. “This is your child, and you’ll have to make the best of it. We’re going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible--some time to-day.” “Home?” repeated Mr. Button incredulously. “Yes, we can’t have him here. We really can’t, you know?” “I’m right glad of it,” whined the old man. “This is a fine place to keep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep. I asked for something to eat”--here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest--“and they brought me a bottle of milk!” Mr. Button, sank down upon a chair near his son and concealed his face in his hands. “My heavens!” he murmured, in an ecstasy of horror. “What will people say? What must I do?” “You’ll have to take him home,” insisted the nurse--“immediately!” A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the eyes of the tortured man--a picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by his side. “I can’t. I can’t,” he moaned.