More than eighteen years ago the first of the letters was written. Pretty handwriting it was. Now he came to think of it, he’d always liked her handwriting, whoever she was. Glancing at the end, he found that she had signed herself Iris. Oh yes, now he began to remember! Quite a—yes—quite a charming little thing she was, too! By Jove yes! And he’d come very near to—to——His thoughts whirled a little here, but they settled down again in a moment. What was all this—he hadn’t married her, so why bother about it? He couldn’t quite recall how she came to be visiting there. Oh yes, now he remembered! She was a distant relative—almost indescribably distant. One of those things like second cousin of your brother-in-law’s first wife. And that reminded him that he used to call her his cousin a thousand times removed! It had been quite a joke between them; and at one time he had come breathlessly near to wiping out the entire bunch of removals by making one little suggestion—which, however, he never made. No, he never made it, worse luck! Or was it worse? A sweet little thing she was, and her name was—her name——He’d forgotten it again and glanced at the end of the letter. Oh, Iris—yes, of course! Iris Heminway. He got her last name himself. His dear little cousin, a thousand times removed. He couldn’t think what ever became of her! Nothing in the letter but what a perfectly lovely visit she’d had. Perhaps the next one might have something. Postmark made it four weeks later—no, five. He began to read. That was it—just what he thought! Somebody has asked her to marry him and she doesn’t know what to do. Wants to know what he thinks of her marrying a machinist. Machinist! He couldn’t recall what he’d answered. Most likely he’d told her to go on and marry the entire machine shop if she felt drawn to it! By George—now he thought of it, he did say just that! Rotten beastly pride! Huffed that she’d spoken of some one else—and there she was giving him the chance, even though he’d never written to her in all that time! Probably doesn’t give the chap’s name. Yes—there it was—Haworth! (Reading to himself from the letter): “His name is Charlie Haworth. He’s a special kind of a machinist and draughtsman and his home is in Montreal. I’m sure he is a splendid fellow, but I thought I would like to ask your advice about it.” That was all. She didn’t say when or where, but just wanted his advice. Well, he’d given it to her! And here was the last letter—Canada stamp and Montreal postmark. Yes, she’d married the machinist and gone up there. Two years later the letter was, according to the postmark.—Oh! Baby! That was it! (Reading again to himself): “... wanted you to know, so I’m writing you the first one. Of course we want his name to be from his father—Charles—but I thought you wouldn’t mind if we called his middle name after you, so it will be Charles Michael Haworth.”