There is but one course--to read the rules, to study the history of the
door until it reaches the stage of suicide--ah! to feel in one's
pockets! That is it! That is it!

David Lockwin cons his bank-book. He opens his worn letters---letters
to the Hon. David Lockwin. He grows timid as he descends into the vale
of despair.

Why did he do it? These details of the electoral campaign seem trivial
now. Easy difficulties!

He reaches the last letter of the packet. Marvelous that he should
wait to unseal it until an hour so fraught with need!

It is Esther's letter--probably some cold missive such as she wrote
during their courtship and engagement.

David Lockwin is beginning to love his wife as a dog worships its
master. He looks to her for safety. He wants to think of her as she
is now--a sincere mourner for a dead friend, husband and protector; a
superior being, capable of pity for David Lockwin.

"Is it wise to read it?" he asks in a dread. "But why should I not be
generous? Why should I not love her--as I do love her? God forgive
me! I do love her! I love her though she smite me now--cold, cold
Esther!"

The man is crying. He cannot hear the banqueters. He has at last
escaped from their world. His hands shake and he unseals the letter,