sympathy. The world is giving him a stone. Oh, Davy! Davy!

The outside electric lights make a thousand monuments, hospitals,
sarcophagi, portraits and panics on the chamber walls. The hours go
past. There is a bustle in the hotel. There is a sound of merriment
in the banqueting hall, directly below. The satisfaction of having
dealt tenderly by the beloved dead is expressing itself in choice
libations and eloquent addresses.

The man listens for these noises. There is a loud clapping of hands.
An address has concluded.

The glasses tinkle. Doors open and shut. Waiters and servants run
through the hall giving orders and carrying on those quarrels which
pertain to the unseen parts of public festivities.

"Why did I not go?" David Lockwin asks. "Ah! yes. Davy! Davy's tomb.
I will see it, if it shall kill me to live until then. But how shall I
pass this night? What shall I do? What shall I do?"

The glasses tinkle. The laughter bursts forth unrestrainedly. The
banquet is moving to the inn-keeper's taste.

The electric lights swing on long wires. The glass in the windows is
full of imperfections and sooty. The phantasmagoria on the wall
distracts the suffering man. Why not have a light? He rises and turns
on the gas. Perhaps there will be a paper or a book in the room. That
will help.

Poverty of hotel life! There is only the card of rules hung on the