"It is all easy!" David Lockwin says, and goes resolutely at work to save
the remnants of his fortune.

For a year he turns the inertia of his love into his daily business.
Esther is building at Chicago, David will build at New York--a fabric of
love, airy, it may be, but graceful and beautiful.

Each night he indites in type-writer and addresses to Esther Lockwin an
essay on the value of hope in great afflictions. The tone grows
familiar, as the weeks pass by. "My dear madam" becomes "my dear Mrs.
Lockwin," and at last "my dear friend." To-night, far into the small
hours, he pours out his advice and comfort:

"Be brave, my dear friend," he proceeds. "Undreamed-of happiness may
still be yours, if you can but come to place confidence in your faithful
correspondent. There are things more strange than anything which the
books give us. As a matter of fact, dear friend, the writers do not dare
to make life as it is, for fear of outrunning the bounds of fiction. Let
me give you comfort, and at the proper time I shall be able, not to
reveal myself, perhaps, but to offer you opportunity to give me a signal
that my services are valuable to you.

"Preserve your health. This admonition has been iterated in the hundreds
of different treatises I have placed before you. My diligence and
patience must recommend themselves. My hope must reinspire your drooping
energies. Until to-morrow at eventide, adieu!"

The time is ripe to learn the effect of these courteous ministrations.
David Lockwin dares not intrust his secret to a chance acquaintance like