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.  “Excuse me,” says the political boss.  “Mr. Lockwin, can you spare a moment?  Hello, Jessie! no, papa will not be home to-night.  Tell mamma, will you?”

A curly head is saddened.  Lockwin thanks the shepherdess, and follows his boss.

“The train goes East at 4:45.  Don’t lose a moment.  Lucky I found you.”

The newspaper press is in possession of a sensation.  On Monday morning we quote:  “A plot has been revealed which might have resulted in the loss of the First district, and possibly of Congress, just at the moment the re-apportionment bill was to be passed.  Notice of contest has been served on Congressman Lockwin as a blind for subsequent operations, and yesterday the newly elected member left hurriedly for Washington to consult with the attorney general.  It is evident that the federal authorities will inquire into the high-handed outrages which swelled the votes of Corkey and the other unsuccessful candidates on election day.