The orator weeps and he thunders. His audience by turns laments and clamors. But the orator, on the inner side of his spirit, is more calm. The practice of his wiles has dulled the edge of his feelings. It may be, therefore, that the orator's art is not honest. Yet who knows that the painter himself really admires the landscape which, in his picture, gathers so much fame for him? The interests of the nation are now to be husbanded in this First Congressional district. The silvery voice of the gifted orator is to reclaim the wandering or lagging voter. The man who has lost faith in the power of the ballot is to be revived with the stimulus of human speech. It can be done. It is done in every campaign. Lockwin is doing it each afternoon and night. Bravely he meets the cry of "Money and machine." One would think he needed no better text. But his secret text is Davy. Davy, whose life has been intrusted to Dr. Floddin, the friend of the poor, the healer who healed the eyes of the peddling huckster's son's sister, the eyes of the housekeeper's relatives, and the eyes of Davy himself. The orator's speech may be impassioned, but he is thinking of Davy. The orator may be infusing the noblest of patriotism in his hearers' hearts, but often he hardly knows what he is saying. At a telling point he stops to think of Davy. The hearer confesses that the question is unanswered. Is Davy safe? Of course. "Then, my fellow-citizens, behold the superb rank of America among nations!" [Cheers.] Is Dr. Tarpion to be gone another week, and is the cook right when she says Davy must eat? "Can we not, my friends and neighbors, lend our humble aid in restoring these magnificent institutions of liberty to their former splendor?" [Cries of "Hear!" "Hear!" "Down in front!"] "The winning candidate," says the majority press, "is making a prodigious effort. It is confidentially explained that he was wounded by the charges of desertion or lukewarmness, which were circulated during the week of the primaries." Dr. Floddin is therefore to take care of Davy. Dr. Floddin's horse is sick. It is a poor nag at best--a fifty-cents-a-call steed. The doctor meantime has a horse from the livery. Davy is to continue the emetic treatment. He sits on the floor in the parlor and turns his orguinette. "Back to Our Mountains" is his favorite air. He has twenty-eight tunes, and he plays Verdi's piece twenty-eight times as often as any of the others. "Oh, Davy, you'll kill us!" laments the housekeeper, for the little orguinette is stridulent and loud. "He'll kill himself," says the cook. "He's not strong enough to grind that hand-organ. He eats nothing at all, at all." "Papa isn't here any more, but I take my medicine," the child says. The drug is weakening his stomach. "It is the only way," says Dr. Floddin, "to relieve his lungs." "Are you sure he is safe?" asks Esther. "Are you sure it was asthma?"