Later I shall refer extensively to Mrs. Canfield’s book The Squirrel Cage.  She has many wise utterances on this phase of the worry question.  For instance, in referring to the mad race for wealth and position that keeps a man away from home so many hours of the day that his wife and child scarce know him she introduces the following dialogue: 

    One of them whose house isn’t far from mine, told me that he
    hadn’t seen his children, except asleep, for three weeks.

    ‘But something ought to be done about it!’ The girl’s
    deep-lying instinct for instant reparation rose up hotly.

‘Are they so much worse off than most American business men?’ queried Rankin.  ’Do any of them feel they can take the time to see much more than the outside of their children; and isn’t seeing them asleep about as—­’

Lydia cut him short quickly.  ’You’re always blaming them for that,’ she cried.  ’You ought to pity them.  They can’t help it.  It’s better for the children to have bread and butter, isn’t it—­’

Rankin shook his head.  ’I can’t be fooled with that sort of talk—­I’ve lived with too many kinds of people.  At least half the time it is not a question of bread and butter.  It’s a question of giving the children bread and butter and sugar rather than bread and butter and father.  Of course, I’m a fanatic on the subject.  I’d rather leave off even the butter than the father—­let alone the sugar.’

Later on Lydia herself lost her father and after his death her own wail was:  ’I never lived with my father.  He was always away in the morning before I was up.  I was away, or busy, in the evening when he was there.  On Sundays he never went to church as mother and I did—­I suppose now because he had some other religion of his own.  But if he had I never knew what it was—­or anything else that was in his mind or heart.  It never occurred to me that I could.  He tried to love me—­I remember so many times now—­and that makes me cry!—­how he tried to love me!  He was so glad to see me when I got home from Europe—­but he never knew anything that happened to me.  I told you once before that when I had pneumonia and nearly died mother kept it from him because he was on a big case.  It was all like that—­always.  He never knew.’

Dr. Melton broke in, his voice uncertain, his face horrified:  ’Lydia, I cannot let you go on! you are unfair—­you shock me.  You are morbid!  I knew your father intimately.  He loved you beyond expression.  He would have done anything for you.  But his profession is an exacting one.  Put yourself in his place a little.  It is all or nothing in the law—­as in business.’

But Lydia replied:  ’When you bring children Into the world, you expect to have them cost you some money, don’t you?  You know you mustn’t let them die of starvation.  Why oughtn’t you to expect to have them