machine."

The children, deeply stirred with him, gazed back into his kindled face.
His magnetism lifted them. For humanity he had worked, should always
work, and with him they understood that this was the greatest service.
With him they rose on the wings of creative imagination. Desire ran deep
in each small heart to do something for the benefit of man. Not money,
not position, but love for one's fellows, work for one's fellows! Never
in all their lives were they to forget this moving hour in the attic.
Its influence would be with them for always.

After a moment Maizie spoke: "How does The Machine know your color,
daddy?"

The inventor smiled. "It has an eye, see?" He pointed to the lens in
the telescope. Then he opened the small door. "In this place it has
sensitized plates; this helmet, too, is highly sensitized." He paused
and then laughed at himself as he saw the mystified expressions of his
children. "Well, let us try Maizie. I know her color, but let's see what
the machine says." He turned out the lamp. "Come, Maizie," he said.

So Maizie seated herself before the machine and watched to see what the
glass plate should say of her. The plate remained for a moment clear,
then slowly there grew a feather of color. Smoke color, a sort of dove
gray, it was and so remained, despite its neutrality, quite plainly
visible.

Mr. Procter lifted the helmet, hushed the machine. He went to his book,
took it to the window, raised the shade a trifle and peered down. "As I
knew," he said. Then closing the book and turning to his small daughter,