Haworth had been allowed to see Edith a few days after the child was born. She was very white and beautiful. When the nurse brought the little speck of humanity, sound asleep, and laid it beside her, he sat gazing at it for a long time. Edith lay looking at him with a shadow of a smile flitting about her face. Soon the nurse made a little sign and turned away. Haworth bent over and pressed his lips to Edith’s hands as they lay on the coverlet—first one and then the other, and then the first again and then the other again. Then he looked once more at the little one, and finally let his eyes meet Edith’s in a long embracing look that told her everything. After that he rose and tiptoed out of the room. Neither of them noticed that not a word had been said. They had spoken in a language not crippled by words. I’ve always had the idea that those innocent and delightful people who are born without a trace of what might be referred to as economics, and who are unable to acquire enough of same for personal use, should have financial guardians appointed to help them through. Charles Michael Haworth, the inventor, should have had one. Everything that he could lay his hands on was expended in providing the best possible care for Edith during the period of her maternity. No still small voice—indeed, no voice of any description—was heard by him in warning against overdoing in the matter of present expenditure, as future needs were likely to be still greater. Haworth could not think of such things. He could think only of Edith. And not Edith in the future, but Edith now. One day, upon roughly figuring from his check-book stubs (which was the only figuring he ever did) he was amazed to find that he had very nearly expended the entire amount deposited from the new loan. Only a few hundred left, and he needed that for the nurse who was taking care of Edith! The doctor had advised keeping some one with her for a while, as she was still far from well. After a tough night worrying about it, he got old Mrs. Temple in and told her that he had come to the place where there was no more money for his own use—none at all. All the servants must go—the cook and Hulda, even herself, for he would be unable to pay any more wages. He was sorry, but they must all go. “What will you do, sir?” the old woman asked. “Oh, that’s—that’s nothing. I’ll be all right.” “You won’t be all right without your food, Mr. Haworth.” “I can get it somewhere.” He had vague notions of things in tins and oatmeal and baked beans, that he could live on for a few cents a day. That money in the bank, every dollar of it, must go for the nurse—for the nurse and their food, too. Augustus was doing nothing. Mrs. Temple went out in a blind sort of way. Soon Hulda appeared. “She told me, sir.” She came just within the door, embarrassed. “Oh yes—about going. I’m sorry.” “I—I’d rather stay, Mr. Haworth.” “You mustn’t.” “If you please, it’s nothing to me about the paying—not till you can.”