feet. "I can outlive poor Davy. I ought to be happy in politics. It
cost me enough!"

And the man had wept.

At home the wife had also wept. She was afraid she had erred. She had
not been frank. She accused herself, she defended herself, she noted
that it was not yet too late to bid David good-bye, or beg him not to
go until he should be stronger. She called a cab from the livery. It
was Sunday. There was a long delay. She entered the vehicle and
directed that haste should be made to the Canal street depot. She
approached the bridge. She feared she had made a mistake. David would
think she was silly. It was entirely unlike the cold Esther Lockwin to
be acting in this manner.

The bridge bell had rung. The bridge swung. She had looked at her
watch. The train would leave at five o'clock. It was 4:50. Could not
the driver go round by the Washington street tunnel?

"It is closed for repairs," the driver had said--a falsehood.

When Esther reached the station the train had left. She had returned
to her home to wait in dire anxiety until her husband should reach
Washington. She had written a long letter unfolding her heart to him.

"Come back to me, my darling," she said in that letter, "and see how
happy we shall be! Let the politics go; that killed Davy and makes us
all so unhappy. You were made for something nobler. Let us go to
Europe once more. Let us seek out the places where you and I have met
in the past."