Then he will not get the letter!

He may arrive in Chicago this night, but how and where?  A gale is rising.  The wife is terrified with waiting and with love.  If she had some little clue of his route homeward.  She is a woman, and does not know how to proceed.  She goes to her father.

“Oh, fudge, puss!  You mustn’t let him go again.  Ha! ha! you’re just like your mother.  She pretty near had a fit when I went away the first time.  He went a little soon for his health, but our leading men tell us he was needed in Washington.  They wanted to see him and get some pledges from him.  He’ll be home by some lake boat in the morning.  They get in about daylight, but it’s like a needle in a haystack.  Why, the last time I came from Mackinaw they landed me on a pile of soft coal—­blest if they didn’t!  Stay all night, puss.  Or go home, if you want to be there.”

“Wind blows like sixty!” says the old Chicagoan, after Esther has gone.

The mother harkens.  She goes to the window.

“Is that the lake?” she asks.

“Yes; it’s too late in the year for David to be on any boat.”

The wife of David Lockwin cannot sleep.  She cannot even write another letter.  “How happy are lovers who may write to each other!” she says.  The gale rises and she waits.  It is midnight and David is not home.  Now, if he should arrive, he would probably keep his state-room until morning.

She awakes at daylight.  She dons a wrapper and creeps to the front door.  There are the morning papers.  She scans every paragraph.  Ah! here is David!

“NIAGARA FALLS, Oct. 16.—­Congressman Lockwin left here to-day for Owen Sound, on Georgian Bay.”

Georgian Bay!  Where is that?  She seeks the library.  She finds a map.  Georgian Bay!  Perhaps David has some lumber interest there.

The paper is scanned again.  Owen Sound, Owen Sound.  She is reading the marine intelligence.  Yes, here is Owen Sound.

“OWEN SOUND, Oct. 16.—­Cleared—­Propeller Africa, merchandise, for Thunder Bay.  Gale blowing, with snow.”

Thunder Bay!  It is still more incomprehensible.

There is a cry in the streets, hoarse and loud—­a triumphant proclamation: 

“Extra!  Full account o’ de shipwreck o’ de Africa!  Full account o’ de big shipwreck!”

A white arm reaches from a front door.  A dime is paid for two papers.  The door must be held open for light to read.

“Appalling calamity!  Unparalleled feat of journalism!”

Hideous it seems to Esther Lockwin.  She clings to the newell-post.

“Death, off Cape Croker, of Congressman Lockwin!”

There may be two congressmen of that name.

There may be two!  It is a dying hope.  Can the eyes cling to the column long enough to read that paragraph?

“Congressman David Lockwin, of the First Illinois, died of his wounds about daylight in a yawl off Cape Croker.  His body is lost with the yawl!”