Well, his wife and his daughter they both died and was buried, and Old
Sol he didn't miss his three dates a day. He didn't come home at all.
I had a notion to tell Lockwin that. Oh, he ain't no timber for
President, or even for senator. I did tell Lockwin how my wife died.
I got to the funeral, of course, for this is a city, and Old Sol was
forty miles away, with muddy roads. But, boys, when I get tired I just
have to go up to the lake and catch bass. I tell you, politics is
hard. I must find Lockwin right away. Good-bye, boys. Charge those
drinks to me."

It is Sunday. David Lockwin is walking toward the little church where
Davy went to Sunday-school. He passes a group at a gate near the
church. "Every week, just at this time, there goes by the most
beautiful child. Stay and see him. See how he smiles up at our
window."

"He is dead and buried," says Lockwin in their ear. They are young
women. They are startled, and run in the cottage.

Lockwin walks as in a dream. To-morrow he goes to Washington.
"Politics is hard," he says, but he does not feel it. He feels
nothing. He feels at rest. Nothing is hard. He is weak from an
illness, of which he knows little. He has never been in this
infant-room. Many a time he has left Davy at the door.

The pastor's wife is the shepherdess. She has a long, white crook.
Before her sit seven rows of wee faces and bodies. It is sweeter than
a garden of flowers. They are too small to read books, but they learn
at the fastest pace. The shepherdess gets Lockwin a chair. There are
tears in her eyes. The audience is quick to feel. Tears come in the