him!"

"David, I fear that you are overtasking yourself. Do be careful!
please be careful!"

Tears come in the fine eyes of the wife. Lockwin's back is turned.

"Good! Good!" he is saying. "So Davy played! I'll warrant it was
'Back to Our Mountains!'"

"Yes," says the wife.

"Good! Good! That's right. By-bye, Esther."

And the man goes out to victory whistling the lament of the crooning
witch, "Back to Our Mountains! Back to Our Mountains!"

"Why should Davy be so fond of that?" thinks the whistler.

But this week of campaign cannot stretch out forever. It must end,
just as Lockwin feels that another speech had killed him. It must end
with Lockwin's nerves agog, so that when a book falls over on the
shelves he starts like a deer at a shot.

It is Monday night, and there will be no speeches by the candidates.
Esther has prepared to celebrate the evening by a gathering of a
half-dozen intimate friends to hear an eminent violinist, whose
performances are the delight of Chicago. The violinist is doubly
eminent because he has a wife who is devoted to her husband's renown.