"Worse than that! Douglas and Lincoln are way behind. Take this city
to-day and it's all Lockwin. Going to the banquet to-night?"

David Lockwin has finished his meal. He rises.

"Coming back," says the monument-maker confidentially to his inquirer,
"I can fix you a beautiful memorial for much less money and it will
answer every purpose."

"I'll see you again," says the customer, cooling rapidly away from the
business. "I must go to the North Side and get back here by 9 o'clock."

Why shall not David Lockwin take the night train and leave this living
tomb in which the world has put him?

"In which I put myself!" he corrects.

It all hurts him yet it delights him. "She loved me after I was dead,"
he vows and forgets the sting of poverty.

Now about this going to New York to-night. He would like to be
prevented from that journey. What shall do that for David Lockwin?

"Davy's sarcophagus!"

The thought seizes him with violence. Of course he cannot go. He
seeks his room. He throws himself on his bed and gives way to all his
grief. It takes the form of love for Davy. David Lockwin weeps for
golden-head. He weeps for the past. He is living. He ought to be
dead. He is poor. He is misshapen in feature. He is hungry for human