“In Vermont.”

“Who ordered the job—­Lockwin or the widow?”

“She did.”

“Well, it’s a pretty thing.  I wish I were rich.  I lost a little boy too.”

The monument-maker at this begins a discourse on the economies of his business and shows that he can meet the requirements of any income or purse.

“Did you see Lockwin’s portrait at the institute?” asks the third party,

“No.  Is it good?”

“I hardly think so.  I don’t remember that he ever looked just like it.  Everybody knew Lockwin, yet I doubt if he had more than one close acquaintance and that was Tarpion—­Doc.  Tarpion.”

“Does the doctor act as her adviser in all these affairs?  Did you read about the dedication?  Did you know about the hospital?  She had better keep her money.  She’ll need it.”

“She?  Not much.  She had a big estate from Judge Wandell’s sister who died.  The judge himself has no other heir.  I shouldn’t wonder if he advised the erection of the hospital to give her the credit of what he intended to do for himself.”

“Well, I never knew a town to be so full of one man as this town is of Lockwin.  You’d think he was Douglas or Lincoln.”

“Worse than that!  Douglas and Lincoln are way behind.  Take this city to-day and it’s all Lockwin.  Going to the banquet to-night?”

David Lockwin has finished his meal.  He rises.

“Coming back,” says the monument-maker confidentially to his inquirer, “I can fix you a beautiful memorial for much less money and it will answer every purpose.”

“I’ll see you again,” says the customer, cooling rapidly away from the business.  “I must go to the North Side and get back here by 9 o’clock.”

Why shall not David Lockwin take the night train and leave this living tomb in which the world has put him?

“In which I put myself!” he corrects.

It all hurts him yet it delights him.  “She loved me after I was dead,” he vows and forgets the sting of poverty.

Now about this going to New York to-night.  He would like to be prevented from that journey.  What shall do that for David Lockwin?

“Davy’s sarcophagus!”

The thought seizes him with violence.  Of course he cannot go.  He seeks his room.  He throws himself on his bed and gives way to all his grief.  It takes the form of love for Davy.  David Lockwin weeps for golden-head.  He weeps for the past.  He is living.  He ought to be dead.  He is poor.  He is misshapen in feature.  He is hungry for human sympathy.  The world is giving him a stone.  Oh, Davy!  Davy!

The outside electric lights make a thousand monuments, hospitals, sarcophagi, portraits and panics on the chamber walls.  The hours go past.  There is a bustle in the hotel.  There is a sound of merriment in the banqueting hall, directly below.  The satisfaction of having dealt tenderly by the beloved dead is expressing itself in choice libations and eloquent addresses.