In the whirlwind of passion, intrigue, slander and hate which had circled the head of the new President since the day of his Inauguration, the mother of his children had not been spared.

The First Lady of the Land had found her position as difficult in its way as her husband had found his. She had met the cynical criticism at first with dignity, reserve, and contempt. But as it increased in violence and virulence she had more than once lost her temper. She had never been blessed with the serenity of spirit that with Lincoln in his trying hours touched the heights of genius.

She was just a human little woman who loved her husband devotedly and hated every man and woman who hated him. And when her patience was exhausted she said things as she thought them, with a contempt for consequences as sublime as it was dangerous.

From the moment of the opening of the war she hated the South, not only because the Southern people had flung the shadow of death over her splendid social career and blighted the brightest dream of her life by war, but she had a more intimate and personal reason for this hatred. Her own flesh and blood had gone into the struggle against her and the husband she loved. Both her brothers born in the South, were in the Confederate army fighting to tear the house down over her head. One of these brothers had been made the Commandant of Libby Prison in Richmond. The woman in her could never forgive them.

And yet men in the North who sought the destruction of her husband saw how they might use the fact of her Southern kin to their own gain, and did it with the most cruel and bitter malignity.

One thing she was determined to do—maintain her position in a way to put it beyond the reach of petty spite and gossip. She had always resented the imputation of boorishness and lack of culture his enemies had made against the man she loved. She held it her first duty, therefore, to maintain her place as the First Lady of the Land in a way that would still those slanderous tongues. For this reason her dresses had been the most elaborate and expensive the wife of any Chief Magistrate of the Republic had ever worn. Her big-hearted, careless husband had no more idea of the cost of such things than a new-born babe.

Lizzie Garland, the negro dressmaker, to whom she had given her patronage, practically spent her entire time with the President's wife, who finally became so contemptuous of unreasonable public criticism in Washington that she was often seen going to Lizzie Garland's house to be fitted.

As Lizzie bent over her work basting the new seams in fitting her last dress, the Mistress of the White House suddenly stopped the nervous movement of her rocking-chair.

"He demands a thousand dollars to-night, Lizzie?"

"Swears he'll take the whole account to the President to-morrow unless he gets it, Madam."

"You tried to make him reasonable?"

"Begged him for an hour."

"That's what I get for trading with a little rat in Philadelphia. I'll stick to Stewart hereafter."

She rose with a gesture of nervous rage:

"Well, there's no help for it then. I must ask him. I dread it. Mr. Lincoln calls me a child—a spoiled child. He's the child. He has no idea of what these things cost. Why can't a Nation that spends two millions a day on contractors and soldiers give its President a salary he can live on?"

She threw herself on the lounge and gave way for a moment to despair.

"He'll give it to you, of course, when you ask it," Lizzie ventured cheerfully.

"If I'm diplomatic, yes. But I hate to do it. He's harassed enough. I wonder sometimes if he's human to stand all he does. If he knew the truth—O my God——"

"Don't worry, Madam," Lizzie pleaded. "It will come out all right. The President is sure to be re-elected."

"That's it, is he? I'm beginning to lose faith. He'll never win if the scoundrels in Washington can prevent it. There's just one man in Congress his real friend. I can't make him see that the hypocrites he keeps in his Cabinet are waiting and watching to stab him in the back. But what's the use to talk, I've got to face it to-day—ask Phoebe to come here."

"Let me go, Madam," Lizzie begged. "I hate the sight of that woman. I suspect her of nosing into our affairs."

"Nonsense!" was the contemptuous answer. "Phoebe's just a big, fat, black, good-natured fool. It rests me to look at her—she's so much fatter than I am."

With a shrug of her shoulders the dressmaker rose and rang for the colored maid, who had just entered Mrs. Lincoln's service.

Phoebe walked in with a glorious smile lighting her dusky face. Seeing her mistress lying down at the unusual hour of eleven o'clock in the morning, she rushed to her side:

"Laws of mussy, Ma'am, ain't you well!"

"Just a little spell of nerves, Phoebe, something that never worries your happy soul——"

"No, Ma'am, dat dey don't!" the black woman laughed.

"Hand me a pencil and pad of paper."

Phoebe executed her order with quick heavy tread, and stood looking while her mistress scribbled a note to her husband.

"Take that to the President, and see that he comes."

Phoebe courtesied heavily:

"Yassam, I fetch him!"

The Hon. Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury, was engaged with the President when Phoebe presented herself at the door of the executive office.

John Hay tried in vain to persuade her to wait a few minutes. Phoebe brushed the young diplomat aside with scant ceremony.

"G'way fum here, Boy!" she laughed. "Miss Ma'y sent me ter fetch 'im right away. An' I gwine ter fetch 'im!"

She threw her ponderous form straight through the door and made for the Chief Magistrate.

Mr. Chase was delivering an important argument, but it had no weight with her.

She bowed and courtesied to the President.

"Excuse me, Governor," he said with a smile. "Good morning, Phoebe."

"Good mornin', sah."

She extended the note with a second dip of her ponderous form:

"Yassah, Miss Ma'y send dis here excommunication ter you, sah!"

"You don't say so?" the President cried, breaking into a laugh.

"Yassah."

"Then I'm excommunicated, Governor!" he nodded to Chase. "I must read the edict." He adjusted his glasses and glanced at the note:

"Your mistress is lying down?"

"Yassah, she's sufferin' fum a little spell er nervous prosperity, sah—dat's all—sah——"

"Oh, that's all?"

"Yassah."

The President roared with laughter, in which Phoebe joined.

"Thank you, Phoebe, tell her I'll be there in a minute——"

"Yassah."

"And Phoebe——"

The maid turned as she neared the door:

"Yassah?"

"I hope you'll always bring my messages from your mistress——"

"Yassah."

"I like you, Phoebe. You're cheerful!"

"I tries ter be, sah!" she laughed, swinging herself through the door.

The President threw his big hands behind his head, leaned back, and laughed until his giant frame shook.

The dignified and solemn Secretary of the Treasury scowled, rose, and stalked from the room.

"Sorry I couldn't talk longer, Chase."

"It's all right," the Secretary replied, with a wave of his hand.

The President found his wife alone.

"I hope nothing serious, Mother?" he said tenderly.

"I've a miserable headache again. Why were you so long?"

"I was with Governor Chase."

"And what did the old snake in the grass want this time?"

The President glanced toward the door uneasily, sat down by her side and touched her hand:

"You should be more careful, Mother. Servants shouldn't hear you say things like that——"

The full lips came together with bitter firmness:

"I'll say just what I think when I'm talking to you, Father—what did he want?"

"He offered his resignation as my Secretary of the Treasury."

His wife sprang up with flashing eyes:

"And you?"

"Refused to accept it."

"O my Lord, you're too good and simple for this world! You're a babe—a babe in the woods with wolves prowling after you from every tree and you won't see them! You know that he's a candidate against you for the Presidency, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You know that he never loses an opportunity to sneer at you behind your back?"

"I've heard so."

"You know that he's hand in glove with the conspirators in Congress who are trying to pull you down?"

"Perhaps."

"You know that he's the greatest letter writer of the age? That he writes as many letters to your generals in the field as old Winter—that he writes to every editor he knows and every politician he can influence, and that the purpose of these letters is always the same—to pull you down?"

"Possibly."

"You have this chance to put your foot on this frozen snake's head and yet you bring him into your house again to warm him into life?"

"Chase is a great Secretary of the Treasury, my dear. The country needs him. I can't afford to take any chances just now of a change for the worse."

"He has no idea of leaving. He's only playing a game with you to strengthen himself—can't you see this?"

"Maybe."

"And yet you submit to such infamy in your own Cabinet?"

"It's not a crime, Mother, to aspire to high office. The bee is in poor Chase's bonnet. He can't help it. I've felt the thing tickle myself. If he can beat me let the best man win——"

"Don't—don't—don't say such fool things," his wife cried. "I'll scream! You need a guardian. You have three men in your Cabinet who are using their positions to climb into the Presidency over you—old Seward, Chase and now Stanton, and you smile and smile and let them think you don't know. You'll never have a united and powerful administration until you kick those scoundrels out——"

"Mother—Mother—you mustn't——"

"I will—I'll tell you the truth—nobody else does. I tell you to kick these scoundrels out and put men in their places who will loyally support you and your policies!"

"I've no right in such an hour to think of my own ambitions, my dear," was the even, quiet answer. "Seward is the best man for his place I know in the country. Stanton is making the most efficient War Secretary we have ever had. Chase is a great manager of our Treasury. I'm afraid to risk a new man. If these men can win over me by rendering their country a greater service than I can, they ought to win——"

"But can't you see, you big baby, that it isn't the man who really gives the greatest service that may win? It's the liar and hypocrite undermining his Chief who may win. Won't you have common sense and send those men about their business? Surely you won't lose this chance to get rid of Chase. Won't you accept his resignation?"

"No."

There was a moment's tense silence. The wife looked up appealingly and the rugged hand touched hers gently.

"I think, Father, you're the most headstrong man that God ever made!"

The dark, wistful face brightened:

"And yet they say I'm a good-natured, easy-going fellow with no convictions?"

"They don't know you——"

"I'm sorry, Mother, we don't see it the same way, but one of us has to decide these things, and I suppose I'm the one."

"I suppose so," she admitted wearily.

"But tell me," he cried cheerfully, "what can I do right now to make you happy? You sent for me for something. You didn't know that Chase was there, did you?"

She hesitated and answered cautiously:

"It doesn't matter whether I did or not. You refuse to listen to my advice."

He bent nearer in evident distress:

"What can I do, Mother?"

"I need some money. Since Willie's death last winter I've thought nothing of my dresses for the next season. I must begin to attend to them. I need a thousand dollars."

"To-day?"

"Yes."

He looked at her with a twinkle playing around the corner of his eyes as he slowly rose:

"Send Phoebe in for the check."

"Ring for her, please."

He pulled the old-fashioned red cord vigorously, walked back to the lounge, put his hands in his pockets and looked at his wife in a comical way.

"Mother," he said at last, "you're a very subtle woman. You'd make a great diplomat if you didn't talk quite so much."