"Oh, David, David, come back! come back! so noble, so good, so great!
You who loved little Davy so! You who kissed his blessed little feet!
Oh, my own! my husband!"

A fond old mother, knocking on the door, comes always in time to stop
these brain-destroying paroxysms.

"And to think, mother, that they shall asperse his name! The people's
idol! Faugh! The people! Oh, mother, mother!"

The mother deplores these months of persistent brooding. It is wrong.

"So they always say, who have not suffered, mother. How fortunate you
are."

But the daughter must recollect that to-day is the dedication. A band
has marched past. Kind friends have carried the subscription to
undoubted success. Emery Storrs will deliver the oration. The papers
are full of the programme, the line of march, the panegyric. There are
many delicate references to the faithful widow, who has devoted her
husband's estate and as much more to the erection of a vast fire-proof
annex at a leading hospital.

The public ear is well pleased. The names of the men who have led in
the memorial of to-day are rolled on everybody's tongue.

There appears at the scene of dedication a handsome woman. Her smile,
though wofully sad, is sweet and sympathetic. She humbly and
graciously thanks all the prominent citizens, who receive her
assurances as so much accustomed tribute. The trowel rings. The