Lockwin sits on a sofa with his pet nestled at the side.  What a sense of rest is this!  How near heaven is this!  He looks down on his little boy and has but one wish—­that he might be across the room to behold the picture.  Perhaps the man is extravagantly fond of that view of curly head, white face, dark brow and large, clear eyes!

Would the violinist make such an effect if his wife were not there to strike those heavy opening chords of that “Faust” fantasie?

“Will they play ‘Back to Our Mountains?’” whispers the child.

“Keep still, Davy,” the man says, himself silenced by a great rendition.

“The doctor’s horse is sick,” whispers Davy, hoarsely.

“Yes, I know,” says the man.  “Bravo, professor, bravo!  You are a great artist.”

“But the doctor’s both horses is sick,” insists Davy.

“Bravo! professor, bravo!”

Now comes the sweetest of cradle-songs, the professor with damper on his strings, the professor’s wife scarcely touching the piano.

The strain ends.  The man is in tears—­not the tears of an orator.  He glances at the child and the great eyes are likewise dim.  “Kiss me, Davy!”

But it is as if Davy were too hard at work with an article.  He must break from the room, the man suddenly wishing that the child could find its chief relief in him.

“Yet I made him take the medicine,” thinks the man, in terror of that night.

The professor will take some little thing to eat—­a glass of beer, perhaps—­but he must not stay.

They go below, where Davy has told the cook of the extraordinary professor who can scarcely speak English.  Davy has asked him if he could spell Josephus.  “After all,” says Davy, “I’d be ashamed to play so loud if I couldn’t spell Josephus.  It hurt my head.”

“Yes, you darlint,” says the cook; “here’s some ice cream.  I don’t want you to wait.  Eat it now.”

“I can’t eat anything but medicine,” says Davy, “and I have to eat that or papa wouldn’t love me.  Do you think he loves me?”

“Ah, yes, darlint.  Don’t ye’s be afraid of that.  Thim as don’t love the likes of ye’s is scarcer than hen’s teeth.”

“T-double-e-t-h,” observes the scholarly Davy.

“My! my!” cries the cook.

At the table, the professor will not care for any beer.  Well, let it be a little.  Well, another glass.  Yes, the glasses are not large.  Another?  Yes.

“Ah!  Meester Lockwin,” he says at last, “I like to play for you.  You look very tired, I hear you will go to the—­to the—­”

The professor must be aided by his good wife.

“To the Congress—­ah, yes, to the Congress.”

“If I shall be elected to-morrow,” smiles the candidate.

The friends go to their homes.  It is not late.  Esther has explained the need her husband has of both diversion and rest.  “He is naturally an unhappy man,” she says, “but Davy and I are making him happier.”