t memory.

"If I am to have a widow I should like such a widow," the man replies.

"I pray God you shall never have one," she vows.

Both are exquisitely happy. Neither can say aught that displeases or
hurts the other. For Esther it is the dawn--the glorious sun rising
out of a winter night. She never had a lover before.

With George Harpwood it is the crowning of an edifice built with
infinitely more pains than the David Lockwin Annex.

The noise of all this is abroad. "The wedding will be private," says
Mrs. Grundy with sorrow. "But the Mrs. Harpwood that is to be will
this winter entertain on a lavish scale. She is devoted to Harpwood's
political aspirations."

"That man Harpwood, if he gets to Congress this winter, will begin a
great career. I wouldn't be surprised to see him President," says one
bank cashier to another.

"Well, he's marrying the woman who can help him most. The labor people
are all on her side."

"When shall the day be, Esther?" the friend of her sorrows asks.

"Let it be the last Thursday of next month at 6 o'clock," she replies,
and is far more peaceful than when David Lockwin asked her to marry him
far on in the long ago, for on that night she cried.

"I suppose the number of guests should be small," he notes.

"Only our nearest friends. A Thursday, dear, at 6 o'clock."

The neighborhood is agog. The servants outdo each other in gossip.
There are household arrangements which are to turn a gloomy abode into
a merry dwelling-place.

The decorators must work night and day. The mansion is as brilliant
with gas as on the evening Esther Wandrell put her hands in David
Lockwin's and listened rapturously to his praise of the beautiful child.

Is that a shadow skulking about this corner! Probably it is some night
policeman employed by the widow.

Certainly it is a faithful watch the figure keeps on the great house
where the decorators toil.

"I'm glad I'm not rich," says one pedestrian to his companion.

"They're awfully afraid of burglary," says the companion.

CHAPTER III

AT 3 IN THE MORNING

"Where is Chalmers?" asks Corkey.

"Mr. Chalmers is not in," answers the clerk.

"I want to see him," says Corkey, authoritatively.

"He is not in," retorts the clerk with spirit.

"Has he sold out?"

"No."

"When will he be in?"

"I can't tell you. Excuse me." A customer waits.

"Yes, yes, yes!" growls Corkey. But he never was busier. He is trying
to do