"Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drank."

Shakespeare.

When Griffith reported at the White House, the President expressed himself as entirely satisfied. "You have done all I asked;" he said. "The maps sent, so far, are wonderfully fine and accurate, I can see that, and now that you have left a man who is able and willing to take your place, that is all I ask. If he should fail us I will send for you again; but I hope I shall not need to do that. If he is faithful, you have, indeed, done your whole duty, nobly. I thank you! I thank you! You are a silent hero—a war hero in times of peace and a peace hero in times of war! I am glad you can go home now. I—I happened to read—I always notice your name, now when I see it and—"

Griffith looked at him steadily. There was evidently something bearing on the mind of the President which had to do with Griffith. Mr. Lincoln was moving toward the table. "Have you read—I suppose you have not seen the papers lately?"

"Nothing," Griffith said, shaking his head. "What is the news, Mr. Lincoln?"

"Glorious news! A great victory at Shiloh! A great victory; but—"

He turned over several papers and took one up from among the rest.

"What regiments are your sons in?" he asked, looking down the columns.

Griffith put out his hand. "What is the name, Mr. Lincoln? Is he killed or——"

The President retained the paper and feigned to be looking for a name. "No, no, missing—according to one account. The other—the news in too meager yet to—it is confused. We can't be sure, and then this paper is several days old beside. I've seen nothing since—nothing at all of him. Here—Roy. Captain Roy Davenport of—"

"Roy is not a captain. That is his brother Beverly. Is Roy——"

"He was promoted on the field, just before he fell—or—— This paper——"

Griffith staggered toward the door.

"I must go home. Just before he fell! Poor Katherine! Poor Roy! I must go home. I must make haste. How long—— When did you say it was? When——?"

"Wait," said Mr. Lincoln. "Let me try for a message—for accurate news for you. Wait." He rang. "Send that message, instantly—to Shiloh—to the Colonel of the ——— Indiana Infantry, and bring me the reply. Be quick—quick as you can," he said; and the secretary hastened away.

Silence fell between them. Griffith's hand reached out toward the paper Mr. Lincoln had let fall, but the long angular arm reached it first, and as if not noticing the movement of Mr. Davenport, he deftly slid it toward the pile of other papers, and then suddenly flung all into a confused heap as he searched for some article on the table.

"Would you like to go home that way?" They were both thinking of Shiloh, so why mention the name? "Perhaps if you did, you might find—you might take him home with you if—— Have you wired his mother that you are safe, and here on your way home? That was right. That will help her to bear——"

He arose restlessly and placed both hands upon Griffith's shoulders. "Mr. Davenport, I can't thank you enough for your services. I want you to understand that I know what it all meant to you, and that I appreciate it at its full value. I hope the time will come when you will let a grateful country know what you have done and—and——" He held out his hand for the message as the door had opened for the secretary. He read and turned the other side up, and then re-read it. "Who is Beverly? Colonel, of—Oh, your son? Oh, this is for you! I did not notice the address. I wondered who loved me!" Mr. Lincoln smiled as he handed the message to his guest. "Roy is wounded, but doing well. Have sent him to Nashville to the Wests. I am unhurt. I love you. Beverly," Griffith read. Then he took out his handkerchief and blew a great blast.

"Was there ever such a boy? To telegraph that!" He smiled up at Mr. Lincoln through proud dim eyes. "That is my oldest son—the Captain." The quaver in his voice and the smile in his eyes, drowned as it was in moisture, touched the great man before him, who took the message again and re-read it as Griffith talked.

"He is a good son. He——"

"He loves you he says, and the other one is doing well. You ought to be satisfied. A good many fathers are not fixed just that way, to-day!" Mr. Lincoln shook his head sadly from side to side, and the tragic face sank into its depth of gloom again. "Too many fathers have no sons to love them today—too many, too many," he said gloomily. "When will it all end? How will it all end?" He held out the message as he suddenly turned to the table. "You will want to keep that. Do you want to go by way of Nashville, now? Or straight home?"

Griffith re-read the message. "Straight home," he said. "He is in good hands—and—and he is safe. Straight home." Then suddenly, as he folded the telegram and placed it in his in-side pocket, "Mr. Lincoln, did you know I am a deserter?"

"What?"

"Did you know I deserted? The General threatened to shoot me, and—"

"W-h-a-t!"

Griffith told the story of the threat simply, fully. The keen eyes watched him narrowly. There was a growing fire in them.

"Didn't you know he couldn't shoot you? Didn't you know you were under me? Didn't you know—"

"I didn't think of that at first, Mr. Lincoln. I thought he could, and—I thought he would, for a little while. I was——"

"If he had," said the President, rising and showing more fire than he had exhibited before, "well, if he had, all I've got to say, is that there'd a' been two of you shot!" Then, recalling himself he smiled grimly. "If he does his share as well as you've done yours, I'll be satisfied."

"Before I go, Mr. Lincoln, I wanted to speak to you about a little matter. You said something just now about a grateful country, and—but— I recall that you—I understood you to— The fact is, when I was here before, I somehow got the idea that you were willing to—to pay and to give a Colonel's commission! and—and emoluments—to one who could do this service, and——"

Mr. Lincoln dropped the hand he held, and an indescribable change passed over the tall form and the face, which made both less pleasant to see. But he smiled, as he passed his hand over his face, and turning toward the table with a tired expression, reached for a pen.

"You've sort of concluded that the job is worth pay, have you?"

"Yes, it's worth all you can afford to pay, Mr. Lincoln; it is extremely dangerous business. Is the offer still open?"

The President gave an imperceptible shrug to his loose shoulders, and drew a sheet of paper toward him.

"Certainly. Commission?" he said as he began to write.

"Yes, if you will. A Colonel's commission and pay dating all back to the beginning of my service—if that is right."

Mr. Lincoln nodded, but there was a distinctly chilly air creeping into his tone. "Y-e-s. Of course.'Nything else?"

"I don't see hardly how you can date it back either, without——"

"Oh yes, I can date it back to the beginning of your service," he said wearily, "but I don't know——"

"I guess you'll have to just put it Col. L. Patterson, for I don't know his real name, the baptismal one. Known him all my life just as Lengthy, but of course that won't——"

"What!" the President had turned to face him, but Griffith was still looking contemplatively out of the window, and did not notice the sudden change of tone and position.

"It will give him a certain standing with the men—and with the General—that he will need—and deserve, and—and—and the rest is right too, for him, if—"

Mr. Lincoln thrust his fingers back and forth through his already disheveled hair, and at last burst out: "Can't say that I exactly get your idea. I understood you to say that you had changed your mind about—about wanting the rank of Colonel, and—and the pay for——"

He was looking full at Griffith, and the preacher's eyes traveled back from the distant hills and fell upon the face before him. It struck him that the face looked tired and worn. He pulled himself up sharply, for the dull way he had been presenting the case, and his reply was in a fuller, freer voice, with a brisker air of attention to business.

"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Lincoln, that's it exactly." Then with a lowered voice: "Perhaps you don't realize, Mr. Lincoln, that every instant a man in that situation, who is known and recognized, and who holds no commission, and wears no federal uniform, has his life in his hands—is in more danger than any soldier ever is, and—"

"Realize! Didn't I tell you so? Didn't I ask you to go better protected? Didn't I—?"

Griffith waved his hand and went on.

"I somehow couldn't bring myself to take the attitude and position of a soldier. I am a man of peace, a non-combatant, a clergyman, and—and then there was some sort of sentiment—of—— Mr. Lincoln, it isn't necessary to try to explain my position. The fact is, I doubt if I could, if I tried, make you understand wholly; but I want this Government to protect Lengthy Patterson with all the power and all the devices it has. And I want him to have a commission that will place him where he will receive respect and consideration in our own ranks; and if he is captured. I want money paid to him to live on afterward, if he should be hurt—and he can never live in his old home again. I want—" He had risen and was standing near the President again. His voice had grown intense in its inflection. "Lengthy Patterson has taken my place, and I want—and—if you will just give him all that—I don't see how you can date it back either, or he will suspect that I am paying him—and he wouldn't take a cent; but if—can't you just——"

A great gleam of light seemed to break over the ragged face of the President. He arose suddenly, and threw one arm around Griffith's shoulders, and grasped his hand again.

"God bless my soul! Certainly! Of course! By the lord Harry, I didn't understand you at first, I— Why, certainly, the man who took your place shall have both the commission that will shield him and the pay he deserves, certainly, certainly!" They were moving toward the door. "Anything else, Mr. Davenport?"

"I reckon you will have to let him think that I took—that I was both commissioned and—and paid, Mr. Lincoln, or he won't take it—and—and there isn't the least reason why he should not. He must. Can I leave it all—will you see that——?"

"Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. I'll fix that— I'm glad it's that way——" He broke off and took Griffith's hand. "Well, good-bye. Goodbye. I hope, when we meet again, it will not be—I hope this war will be over, and that I shall have no more need to test men like you. But—ah, you have a son who loves you and the other one is safe! I wish to heaven all loyal men were as well off as you are to-night. I am glad for you, and yet I sometimes think I shall never feel really glad again," and the strong homely face sank from its gently quizzical smile into the depths of a mood which had come to be its daily cast. He stretched out his hand for another message, and stood reading it as Griffith closed the door behind him. "New Orleans is ours," was all that the message said, but Mr. Lincoln sighed with relief and with pain. Victory was sweet, but carnage tortured his great and tender soul. The sadly tragic face deepened again in its lines, and yet he said softly, as he turned to his desk: "Thank God! Thank God! one more nail is driven into the coffin of the Confederacy. Let us hope that rebellion is nearly ready to lie down in it and keep still. Then perhaps we can be glad again—perhaps we can forget!"