A stair-carpenter happened to see a picture of the martyred President. Instantly the tones of his voice softened, his eyes grew moist with tears, and the whole expression of his face changed.

Then he told us his “story of Lincoln.” He had been shot through the lungs when on picket in ’63, and was in the hospital at Fortress Monroe.

For weeks he had been lying there, till he had grown dreadfully homesick, and felt as if the only thing that could cure him was to get home to Maryland.

One morning Lincoln visited the hospital, and as he was passing around, pausing before each cot to speak a word of cheer to each wounded soldier, this one made up his mind that if he gave him a chance, he would make known his wants.

At last his turn came.

“You seem very comfortable, my friend,” Lincoln said.

“Not so comfortable as I should be if I could get home to Maryland,” was the reply.

“What is your name?”

“S. Stover, Co. H, 2d Maryland Volunteers,” was promptly answered, and Lincoln passed on.

In just three days came an order from the President to transfer Private Stover, Co. H, 2d Md. Vols., by water to the hospital at Annapolis.

“I was surprised myself,” he said; “for I had watched him as long as he was in sight, and when I saw him go through the door without writing down my name and company, I gave up all hope of seeing my Maryland again.

“And it has always been a mystery to me that a man with so much to think of should keep in mind the name, regiment and company of a private soldier.”

As he turned away to conceal the tears he could not keep back, it was plain how large a place the thoughtful kindness of that great man had won in the heart of the poor, homesick, wounded soldier.