not highly valued. The poor on every side touch the widow's heart with
their sincere and generous offerings.

The philosophic discuss the character of Esther Lockwin.

"Her troubles have brought her out. These cold women are slow to
strike fire, but I admire them," says the first philosopher.

"Don't you think our American widows make too much ado?" asks the
second philosopher.

"They at least do not ascend the burning pyre of their dead husbands."

"To be sure. That's so. I don't know but I like Esther Lockwin the
better. I never knew a man to lose so much as Lockwin did by dying."

"She declares his death was due to the little boy's death."

"Odd thing, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but he was a beautiful child. What was his name, now?"

"It was Lockwin's name--let me see--David."

"Oh, yes, Davy, they called him."

"Well, she has erected the prettiest sarcophagus in the whole cemetery
for Davy. I tell you Esther Lockwin is a magnificent woman."

"She would have more critics, though, if she were not Wandrell's only
daughter."

"Wandrell's only daughter! You don't tell me so! Ah, yes, yes! That
accounts for it."

So, while the philosophers account for it, Esther Lockwin goes on with
the black business of life. Every week she waits impatiently for news
from Corkey. Every week he gives notice that he has found nothing.

"When spring comes, I'll find that yawl," he promises. He knows he can
do that much with time.

How often has Esther Lockwin thrown herself on a couch, weeping and
moaning as if her body would not hold her rebellious heart--as when
Corkey left her in those black and earliest days of the great tempest
of woe!

"It is marvelous that it is held to be dishonorable to die, and
honorable to live," she cries.

"Oh, David, David, come back! come back! so noble, so good, so great!
You who loved little Davy so! You who kissed his blessed little feet!
Oh, my own! my husband!"

A fond old mother, knocking on the door, comes always in time to stop
these brain-destroying paroxysms.

"And to think, mother, that they shall asperse his name! The people's
idol! Faugh! The people! Oh, mother, mother!"

The mother deplores these months of persistent brooding. It is wrong.

"So they always say, who have not suffered, mother. How fortunate you
are."

But the daughter must recollect that to-day is the dedication. A band
has marched past. Kind friends have carried the subscription to
u