"They at least do not ascend the burning pyre of their dead husbands." "To be sure. That's so. I don't know but I like Esther Lockwin the better. I never knew a man to lose so much as Lockwin did by dying." "She declares his death was due to the little boy's death." "Odd thing, wasn't it?" "Yes, but he was a beautiful child. What was his name, now?" "It was Lockwin's name--let me see--David." "Oh, yes, Davy, they called him." "Well, she has erected the prettiest sarcophagus in the whole cemetery for Davy. I tell you Esther Lockwin is a magnificent woman." "She would have more critics, though, if she were not Wandrell's only daughter." "Wandrell's only daughter! You don't tell me so! Ah, yes, yes! That accounts for it." So, while the philosophers account for it, Esther Lockwin goes on with the black business of life. Every week she waits impatiently for news from Corkey. Every week he gives notice that he has found nothing. "When spring comes, I'll find that yawl," he promises. He knows he can do that much with time. How often has Esther Lockwin thrown herself on a couch, weeping and moaning as if her body would not hold her rebellious heart--as when Corkey left her in those black and earliest days of the great tempest of woe! "It is marvelous that it is held to be dishonorable to die, and honorable to live," she cries. "Oh, David, David, come back! come back! so noble, so good, so great! You who loved little Davy so! You who kissed his blessed little feet! Oh, my own! my husband!" A fond old mother, knocking on the door, comes always in time to stop these brain-destroying paroxysms. "And to think, mother, that they shall asperse his name! The people's idol! Faugh! The people! Oh, mother, mother!" The mother deplores these months of persistent brooding. It is wrong. "So they always say, who have not suffered, mother. How fortunate you are." But the daughter must recollect that to-day is the dedication. A band has marched past. Kind friends have carried the subscription to undoubted success. Emery Storrs will deliver the oration. The papers are full of the programme, the line of march, the panegyric. There are many delicate references to the faithful widow, who has devoted her husband's estate and as much more to the erection of a vast fire-proof annex at a leading hospital. The public ear is well pleased. The names of the men who have led in the memorial of to-day are rolled on everybody's tongue. There appears at the scene of dedication a handsome woman. Her smile, though wofully sad, is sweet and sympathetic. She humbly and graciously thanks all the prominent citizens, who receive her assurances as so much accustomed tribute. The trowel rings. The soprano sings. The orator is at his best. Band after band takes up its air. The march begins again. Chicago is gratified. The great day ends with a banquet to the prominent citizens by the political leader.