"Oh, yes. Did you not see the white foam? That is asthma." "You do not come often enough, doctor. I know Mr. Lockwin would be angry if he knew." "My horse will be well to-morrow and I can call twice. But the child has passed the crisis. You must soon give him air. Let him play a while in the back yard. His lungs must be accustomed to the cold of winter." "I presume Mr. Lockwin will take us south in December." "Yes, I guess he'd better." But Esther does not let Davy go out. The rattle is still in the little chest. Lockwin is home at one o'clock in the morning. He visits Davy's bed. How beautiful is the sleeping child! "My God! if he had died!" Lockwin is up and away at seven o'clock in the morning. "Be careful of the boy, Esther," he says. "What does the doctor seem to think?" "He gives the same medicine," says Esther, "but Davy played his orguinette for over an hour yesterday." "He did! Good! Esther, that lifts me up. I wish I could have heard him!" "David, I fear that you are overtasking yourself. Do be careful! please be careful!" Tears come in the fine eyes of the wife. Lockwin's back is turned. "Good! Good!" he is saying. "So Davy played! I'll warrant it was 'Back to Our Mountains!'" "Yes," says the wife. "Good! Good! That's right. By-bye, Esther." And the man goes out to victory whistling the lament of the crooning witch, "Back to Our Mountains! Back to Our Mountains!" "Why should Davy be so fond of that?" thinks the whistler. But this week of campaign cannot stretch out forever. It must end, just as Lockwin feels that another speech had killed him. It must end with Lockwin's nerves agog, so that when a book falls over on the shelves he starts like a deer at a shot. It is Monday night, and there will be no speeches by the candidates. Esther has prepared to celebrate the evening by a gathering of a half-dozen intimate friends to hear an eminent violinist, whose performances are the delight of Chicago. The violinist is doubly eminent because he has a wife who is devoted to her husband's renown. 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!"