Whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other workingman, should keep abreast of his business.

Harvey Cheyne, senior, had gone East late in June to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the gray seas.

He had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage-women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless.

Mrs.Cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen.

Hope she had none, and who could offer it?
All she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment.