id 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
eyes of little faces nearly as beautiful as Davy's. Roses are sweetest
when the dew sparkles on them.

"Oh, my dear sir, no. None of them are as pretty as he was." Such is
the opinion of the shepherdess. "We see only one like him in a
lifetime," she testifies. A wee, blue chair is vacant in the first row
at the end--clearly the place of honor. A withered wreath lies on the
chair. The man's eyes are fastened on that spot. Here is a world of
which he knew nothing. Here he follows in the very footsteps.

"Listen, listen," says the motherly teacher. "This is Davy's father."

Three of the most bashful arise and come to be kissed. Strange power
of human pity!

[Illustration: Three of the most bashful arise and come to be kissed.]

"Little Davy is with Jesus," says the shepherdess. "Now all you who
want to be with Jesus, raise your hands."

Every right hand is up. Their faith is implicit, but many a left hand
is pulling a neighboring curl. Busy is that long shepherd crook, to
defeat those wicked left hands.

A head obtrudes in the door. "