phagus you put up yesterday?"

"In Vermont."

"Who ordered the job--Lockwin or the widow?"

"She did."

"Well, it's a pretty thing. I wish I were rich. I lost a little boy
too."

The monument-maker at this begins a discourse on the economies of his
business and shows that he can meet the requirements of any income or
purse.

"Did you see Lockwin's portrait at the institute?" asks the third party,

"No. Is it good?"

"I hardly think so. I don't remember that he ever looked just like it.
Everybody knew Lockwin, yet I doubt if he had more than one close
acquaintance and that was Tarpion--Doc. Tarpion."

"Does the doctor act as her adviser in all these affairs? Did you read
about the dedication? Did you know about the hospital? She had better
keep her money. She'll need it."

"She? Not much. She had a big estate from Judge Wandell's sister who
died. The judge himself has no other heir. I shouldn't wonder if he
advised the erection of the hospital to give her the credit of what he
intended to do for himself."

"Well, I never knew a town to be so full of one man as this town is of
Lockwin. You'd think he was Douglas or Lincoln."

"Worse than that! Douglas and Lincoln are way behind. Take this city
to-day and it's all Lockwin. Going to the banquet to-night?"

David Lockwin has finished his meal. He rises.

"Coming back," says the monument-maker confidentially to his inquirer,
"I can fix you a beautiful memorial for much less money and it will
answer every purpose."

"I'll see you again," says the customer, cooling rapidly away from the
business. "I must go to the North Side and get back here by 9 o'clock."

Why shall not David Lockwin take the night train and leave this living
tomb in which the world has put him?

"In which I put myself!" he corrects.

It all hurts him yet it delights him. "She loved me after I was dead,"
he vows and forgets the sting of poverty.

Now about this going to New York to-night. He would like to be
prevented from that journey. What shall do that for David Lockwin?

"Davy's sarcophagus!"

The thought seizes him with violence. Of course he cannot go. He
seeks his room. He throws himself on his bed and gives way to all his
grief. It takes the form of love for Davy. David Lockwin weeps for
golden-head. He weeps for the past. He is living. He ought to be
dead. He is poor. He is misshapen in feature. He is hungry for human
sympathy. The world is