secured it, cared for it, and were keeping it for
him.

It happened that just at that time imperative
orders were issued from the War Department,
prohibiting all intercourse with the
peninsula—a necessary precaution against the
premature disclosure of important military
plans. So it was with some misgivings that
Colonel Scott applied to Mr. Secretary Stanton
for leave to return to Virginia, on his melancholy
duty.

"Impossible, colonel," replied Mr. Stanton,
firmly; "no one can have leave to go down
the river, at this time, on any private mission
whatever. Our present exigencies demand the
most stringent regulations; and I hope I need
not say to you that no merely personal
considerations should be allowed to interfere with
great national interests. Your case is a sad
one; but this is a critical, perilous, cruel time.
'The dead must bury the dead.'"

The colonel would have entreated, but the
busy secretary cut him short with another
"impossible," from which there was absolutely
no appeal. He went forth from the presence,
and returned to his hotel, quite overwhelmed.

Fortunately, he was that afternoon visited
by a friend, to whom he told the story of his
unsuccessful application and sad perplexity,
and who immediately exclaimed, "Why not
apply to the president?"

The colonel had but little hope, but
acknowledging that the plan was worth trying, drove
with his friend to the White House.

They were too late. It was Saturday evening,
and Mr. Lincoln had gone to spend
Sunday at Soldier's Rest, his summer retreat.
This was but a few miles from town, and the
colonel's indomitable friend proposed that they
should follow him out, and they went.

There was then a popular belief that all the
wronged, the troubled, and suffering could find
a refuge in "Father Abraham's" capacious
bosom; a belief that was not far out of the
way. Yet there were times when overburdened,
wearied, tortured, the patriarch longed to clear
that asylum of its forlorn inmates, to bolt and
bar and double-lock it against the world; times
when life became too hard and perplexing for
his genial, honest nature, too serious and tragic
and rascally a thing by half.

It happened, unluckily, that the poor colonel
and his friend found the president in one of
his most despondent and disgusted moods. He
was in his little private parlour, alone in the
gloaming. He was lounging loosely in a large
rocking-chair, jutting over it in all directions.
His slippered feet were exalted, his rough head
was thrown back. his long throat bare—he was
in his shirt-sleeves! Yes, dear, fastidious
English reader, it was genuine Yankee abandon,
—make the most of it!

He turned upon his visitors a look of almost
savage inquiry. There was indeed, in his usually
pleasant eyes, a wild, angry gleam; a something
like the glare of a worried animal at bay.

Colonel Scott proceeded very modestly to
tell his story; but the president interrupted
him, to say brusquely, "Go to Stanton; this
is his business."

"I have been to him, Mr. President, and
he will do nothing for me."

"You have been to him, and got your
answer, and still presume to come to me!
Am I to have no rest? no privacy? Must I
be dogged to my last fastnesses and worried to
death by inches? Mr. Stanton has done just
right. He knows what he is about. Your
demands are unreasonable, sir."

"But, Mr. Lincoln,' I thought you would
feel for me."

"Feel for you! Good God! I have to feel
for five hundred thousand more unfortunate
than you. We are at war, sir: don't you know
we are at war? Sorrow is the lot of all; bear
your share like a man and a soldier."

"I try to, Mr. President, but it seems hard.
My devoted wife lost her life for coming to
nurse me, in my sickness, and I cannot even
take her body home to my children."

"Well, she ought not to have come down to
the army. She should have stayed at home.
That is the place for women. But if they will
go tearing about the country, in such times as
these, and running into all sorts of danger,
they must take the consequences! Not but
that I am sorry for you, colonel. As for your
wife, she's at rest, and I wish I were."

Saying this, the president leaned back wearily
in his chair, and closed his eyes, not noticing,
except by a slight wave of his hand, the
departure of his visitors.

I am not ashamed to confess that my hero
tossed restlessly that night, upon a pillow wet
with manly tears, that he was desperate and
resentful, utterly unresigned to the decrees of
Providence and the War Department, and that
he thought Abraham Lincoln as hard as he
was ugly, and as inhumane as he was ungainly.

Toward morning he fell asleep, and slept
late. Before he was fully dressed, there came
a quick knock at the door of his chamber, and
he opened to President Lincoln!

The good man came forward, pale and eager,
tears glistening in his eyes, and grasped the
colonel's hand, saying, "I treated you brutally
last night. I ask your pardon. I was utterly
tired out, badgered to death. I generally
become about as savage as a wild cat by
Saturday night, drained dry of the 'milk of
human kindness.' I must have seemed to you
the very gorilla the rebels paint me. I was
sorry enough for it, when you were gone. I
could not sleep a moment last night, so I thought
I'd drive into town, in the cool of the morning,
and make it all right. Fortunately, I had little
difficulty in finding you."

"This is very good of you, Mr. President,"
said the colonel, deeply moved.

"No it isn't; but that was very bad of me,
last night. I never should have forgiven
myself, if I had let that piece of ugly work
stand. That was a noble wife of yours,
colonel! You were a happy man to have such
a noble woman to love you; and you must be a
good fellow, or such a woman would never