He pulls the bed down. He cannot lie on it now. He takes a chair and greedily reads the apotheosis of David Lockwin. As he reads he is seized with a surprising feeling. In all this eulogium he sees the hand of Esther Lockwin. Without her aid this great biography could not have been collated. The sweat stands on his brow. He studies the type, to learn those confessions that the publishers make, one to another, but not to the world. "It is paid for," he groans. He is wounded and unhappy. "It is her cursed pride," he says. "I'm glad I'm out of it all." He sits, week after week, hands deep in pockets, his legs stretched out, one ankle over the other, his chin far down on his chest. "Funny man in the east parlor!" says the chambermaid. "Isn't he ugly!" says her fellow-chambermaid. But after this long discontent, Robert Chalmers finds that Chicago mourns for him. He is flattered. "I earned it!" he cries, and goes in search of the books that once eased him--the identical copies. The movement for a cenotaph makes him smile. On the whole, he is glad men are so sentimental about monuments. He is glad, however, that no monument will be erected. It is undoubtedly embarrassing. He is thinking too much of Chicago. He must begin this second life on a new principle. He must forget David Lockwin. It grows apparent to the man that his brain will not bear the load which now rests upon it. He must rather dwell upon the miseries that he has escaped He must canvass the good fortune of a single and irresponsible citizen, Robert Chalmers, who has no less than $74,500 in bank. He must put his mind on business. No! One reason for quitting the old life was the desire to pass a studious life. Well, then, he must wait patiently for that period when his mind will be quiet. A certain thought at last reanimates him. Would it not be well to act as a clerk until the weariness of servitude should make freedom pleasing? This is both philosophical and thrifty. Robert Chalmers therefore advertises for a situation as book-keeper. This occupation will support him in his determination to neglect the Chicago newspapers. "Greatest man I ever saw to sit stretched out, his hands deep in his pockets, his feet crossed, his head far down on his shirt bosom," says the chambermaid at Gramercy Square. "He must be an inventor. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks. Dear sakes, but he is homely." An advertisement secures to Robert Chalmers a book-keeper's place in a dry-goods agency on Walker street. The move is a wise one. The labor occupies his time, improves his spirits and emancipates him from the unpleasant conclusions that were forcing themselves on him. He is not liked by the other clerks because he is not social, but he is able to consider, once more, the humiliations which he escaped by avoiding a contested election, and by a successful evasion of a wedding compact which was a part of his foolish political ambition.