The man is flattered. He, too, is in love. "I will go with you if you would be happier amid other scenes," he suggests.

"I have nothing to be ashamed of, have I?" she asks proudly, thinking of her n.o.ble David and his fragrant memory.

"If I am to have a widow I should like such a widow," the man replies.

"I pray G.o.d you shall never have one," she vows.

Both are exquisitely happy. Neither can say aught that displeases or hurts the other. For Esther it is the dawn--the glorious sun rising out of a winter night. She never had a lover before.

With George Harpwood it is the crowning of an edifice built with infinitely more pains than the David Lockwin Annex.

The noise of all this is abroad. "The wedding will be private," says Mrs. Grundy with sorrow. "But the Mrs. Harpwood that is to be will this winter entertain on a lavish scale. She is devoted to Harpwood's political aspirations."

"That man Harpwood, if he gets to Congress this winter, will begin a great career. I wouldn't be surprised to see him President," says one bank cashier to another.

"Well, he's marrying the woman who can help him most. The labor people are all on her side."

"When shall the day be, Esther?" the friend of her sorrows asks.

"Let it be the last Thursday of next month at 6 o'clock," she replies, and is far more peaceful than when David Lockwin asked her to marry him far on in the long ago, for on that night she cried.

"I suppose the number of guests should be small," he notes.

"Only our nearest friends. A Thursday, dear, at 6 o'clock."

The neighborhood is agog. The servants outdo each other in gossip.

There are household arrangements which are to turn a gloomy abode into a merry dwelling-place.

The decorators must work night and day. The mansion is as brilliant with gas as on the evening Esther Wandrell put her hands in David Lockwin's and listened rapturously to his praise of the beautiful child.

Is that a shadow skulking about this corner! Probably it is some night policeman employed by the widow.

Certainly it is a faithful watch the figure keeps on the great house where the decorators toil.

"I'm glad I'm not rich," says one pedestrian to his companion.

"They're awfully afraid of burglary," says the companion.

CHAPTER III

AT 3 IN THE MORNING

"Where is Chalmers?" asks Corkey.

"Mr. Chalmers is not in," answers the clerk.

"I want to see him," says Corkey, authoritatively.

"He is not in," retorts the clerk with spirit.

"Has he sold out?"

"No."

"When will he be in?"

"I can't tell you. Excuse me." A customer waits.

"Yes, yes, yes!" growls Corkey. But he never was busier. He is trying to do his work at the office and to get through election week.

"Where is Chalmers?" Again Corkey is at the drug store. "See here, my friend, I don't take no street-car way down here to have you do no cunning act. Is Chalmers in town?"

"I do not know."

The clerk is telling the truth, and is in turn offended. "I do not know," he says, resolutely.

Corkey is convinced. "I'll bet it's true," he says, suddenly summing up the situation.

He hurries away. The weather is wet and cold.

Corkey is drenched, and of all things he dreads a drenching. For that he wears the thickest of clothes.

Three hours later he is known to be badly beaten at the polls. He is denounced as a sore-head, a bolter, and a fool.

Corkey goes to his home. On the night of the fourth day he appears in the yellow light of the telegraph-room.

"Commodore, we're sorry for you. Take it easy, and get back to work.

No man can live, doing as you've done. You were up all the time, weren't you?"

Corkey's light is burning because the other editors need it. He sits with his coat on, his face on his hands, his elbows on the table.

"I was up the last six days," he explains. "I just got out of bed now."

"Do you good to sleep," says the night editor.

"What day is it?"

"Sat.u.r.day."

"Well, I go to sleep some time Wednesday. I sleep ever since."

There is a chorus of astonishment. "It will save your life, Corkey.

We thought the election would kill you."

"I'm sleepy yet."