He had lately hungered for somebody more charitable to himself than he
himself could be. He had experienced a mean, spiritless happiness in
noting the honors which the widow was heaping on his memory. Now he is
furiously in love with that widow. He sallies from the hotel in haste to
her residence.

Three blocks away from his goal, with the old home in sight, he awakens
to his danger. A moment more and the whole shameful truth had been known!

"No, base as I am, I cannot do that," he shudders.

Besides, he is a true lover, and what one ever dared to take the great
risk?

Here she lives! And between her and her lover, her husband, yawns the
chasm of death! Was it not a black act that could so enrobe a woman? He
recalls her garb as she appeared at the dedication yesterday--solemn,
solemn!

It is unsafe to stay in this neighborhood, yet let this man creep nearer
and gaze on the house where Davy died.

The balcony--it seems to him, dimly, that he made a speech from that
balcony. But Davy's death is not now the calamity it was yesterday. It
seems more like a pleasant memory--a small memory. The gigantic thought
is Esther, Esther--Esther the beautiful, the noble, the generous, the
faithful. She shall be the wife of Ulysses, waiting for his return, and
he shall return!

The husband again starts for Esther's door. There are two men within