A GLIMPSE OF MR. LINCOLN

At Mrs. May’s question the strange girl drew back from the motherly embrace and glanced up at the older woman almost reproachfully. “I should think you would know who I am when I called you ‘Aunt Parthenia,’” she said.

“My dear,” Mrs. May hastened to reply, “half of Alabama and nearly all of Georgia call me ‘Aunt Parthenia.’ Between the Mays and the Harriots I have so many connections that I can’t remember them all. Especially those I’ve never seen.”

The girl’s face brightened immediately.

“I am Dorothea Drummond,” she announced, and with the words the mystery was ended. Once more she was folded in Mrs. May’s arms with a warmth that left no doubt of the affection that prompted it.

“Susie’s baby!” Mrs. May exclaimed. “My little sister’s baby! Girls! Girls!” she cried excitedly to her two daughters, “this is your own cousin from England.”

“I’m mighty glad you did come to the right place after all!” Harriot burst out, taking her cousin’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“Even though you thought I was a ‘dumby’?” Dorothea laughed back, with a twinkle in her eye.

“I never did think so,” Harriot protested, and then turned to Mortality, who was gaping curiously. “Itty, you run to Aunt Decent right off and tell her my cousin, Miss Dorothea, is here, and is as hungry as she can be. We’ll be out presently. Run now. You are hungry, of course,” she went on, addressing Dorothea, as Mortality scampered away. “You’re ’bliged to be, after coming all the way from England.”

By this time April had dismissed the carriage and joined them.

“We are very glad to see you, Dorothea,” she said, leaning down and kissing the girl warmly. Her welcome was sincere, for not only was she attracted by Dorothea’s appearance, but the fact that this new cousin had come from England, where the South still counted upon sympathy for their cause, was an additional reason for cordiality. “I thought you were about my age,” she added with an inviting smile.

“I am past fifteen,” Dorothea replied.

“Then you’re my cousin most!” Harriot insisted. “I’m not fourteen yet, but you’re nearer my age than you are April’s.”

“You’re just a baby, Harry,” April teased.

“Oh, it’s horrid to be the youngest!” her sister protested. “Your family never want you to grow up.”

“I think it’s rather worse to be both the youngest and the oldest,” Dorothea put in, laughing. “Then you’re expected to be both grown-up and a baby, too.”

“All the same you’re mostly my age,” Harriot maintained stoutly, and, as if to seal their friendship, she, too, kissed Dorothea enthusiastically.

“But that doesn’t make her any more your cousin than she is mine,” April contended. “You needn’t think, Harry, that you are going to have Dorothea all to yourself.”

It was said so sweetly that the newcomer, looking up into the face of the radiant girl before her, felt a warm throb in her heart. She was no longer a stranger. Her experiences in New York and Washington had not served to break through the reserve that she came, one day, to recognize as the British side of her character; but her welcome here had none of the English formality to which she was accustomed. This Southern greeting, with its frank cordiality, stirred within her a response hitherto unknown. She was a little puzzled at the dawning of a new day in her outlook upon life.

“You girls will have to share a cousin, but she is all my niece,” Mrs. May laughed. “Come in, my dear,” she went on, putting an arm about Dorothea. “You will find that we are without many things to make you as comfortable as we should like; but we are not the least, tiny bit less glad to see you on that account.”

She led the way into the breakfast room where a substantial “refreshment” was being prepared for this latest guest. And here, after she had eaten a little, Dorothea told of her experiences in Washington before she started South.

“I really did come from England to visit you, Aunt Parthenia,” she said. “You know you wrote many times that you would be glad to see me.”

“Of course!” Mrs. May nodded.

“Well,” the girl went on, “father had to come over on diplomatic business, and I begged him to bring me because I wanted to know my relations in America. When we sailed every one thought that the war would be ended by the time we arrived; but it wasn’t, so I stayed with father in Washington. I wrote you as soon as we landed, saying I was coming; and father had the letter sent through the lines. But, of course, I was not very much surprised at not hearing from you; though it never occurred to me that you might not have received my letter. Then, quite suddenly, just when we were nicely settled, father was ordered to South America.”

“And was he ’bliged to go?” demanded Harriot, munching the remains of a pecan praline garnered from Dorothea’s lunch.

“Oh, of course,” her cousin answered. “That is the way it always is in the Diplomatic Service. You can’t ever tell where you may be sent the next day. There was a ship leaving almost immediately, and father only had an hour or two to get ready if he was to reach New York in time to sail. He was for starting me back to England with FrÄulein—”

“Who was she?” asked April.

“My governess and companion,” Dorothea replied with a laugh. “I wonder where she is now, poor FrÄulein? Well, I teased father to let me try to come here if I could safely, and he said I might. Then he took the train, and a few days afterward I started South.”

“But, my dear,” Mrs. May exclaimed, “there must have been something more than that. How could you travel without an escort?”

“Besides, the Yankees would never let you through their lines,” April put in bitterly. “Did you run the blockade?”

“I thought for a little while I should have to, if I was to come at all,” Dorothea continued. “You see, just before he left, father wrote a letter to the Secretary of War, Mr. Stanton, asking that I be permitted to go through the Union lines on my way here. So the next day I went to see Mr. Stanton. It was a long time before I was let into his office; but at last I was, and he sat at a large desk with father’s letter, which I had sent in to him, in his hand. He looked at me pretty sharply.

“‘Well, young lady,’ he began at once. ‘You might have spared yourself this trip. I have issued the last pass through our lines.’

“He said it as if he were rather pleased to have a chance to growl at me. You see the English are not popular in Washington—”

“That is to their everlasting credit,” April broke in warmly. “They are all friends of the Confederacy.”

“That is what Mr. Stanton was thinking,” Dorothea went on, nodding her head wisely. “Father had warned me that there might be trouble. The Secretary, of course, didn’t want to offend the English if he could help it, and I didn’t mean to be put off so easily.

“‘Surely you could let me have a pass, sir, couldn’t you?’ I pleaded.

“‘I could—but I won’t,’ he answered gruffly.

“‘My father thought you might take his position somewhat into consideration,’ I suggested meekly.

“‘Then he should have written to Seward!’ the Secretary of War snapped out angrily. ‘I am not one of those who think it would do any good to our cause to favor the English.’

“‘But the Drummonds are Scots, sir,’ I reminded him, at which he threw up his head like a restive horse.

“‘It is the same thing,’ he cried.

“‘Ye’ll nae find a Scotsman agreein’ wi’ ye in that, Mr. Secretary,’ I retorted, for you know we are not English and it annoys us to have people think we are.

“Before he could reply we were both surprised to hear a low chuckle of amusement and I turned to meet the gaze of a tall, lanky man, whom, of course, I recognized at once.”

“Abe Lincoln!” ejaculated Harriot scornfully, and Dorothea eyed her younger cousin with a momentary look of surprise.

“You’d never think of calling him that if once you’d seen him,” she went on slowly. “I don’t know quite how to describe him—”

“They say he’s the ugliest man in America,” April interrupted with a laugh of derision.

“Oh, but he isn’t ugly!” Dorothea protested earnestly. “Truly he isn’t. He’s not like any other man I ever saw. I looked up into his face, and it was so sad that my heart just ached and I felt that I wanted to comfort him, only—only there wasn’t any way I could do it, was there? And he was tired, too, dreadfully tired. You could tell from the droop of his body—and his eyes. But all that I noticed later. When I turned round first, he was smiling and watching me with so pleasant a look that I wasn’t at all afraid or embarrassed, as one would have expected.

“‘Well, little girl,’ he said, just as father might have said it, ‘I think you scored on the Secretary of War that time; though indeed we all make the same mistake in this country. But what is it all about?’

“He put his hand on my shoulder and we stood together before Mr. Stanton, who scowled up at us for all the world like an angry schoolmaster at two naughty pupils.

“‘The young lady is the daughter of Mr. Drummond of the British Embassy,’ the Secretary grudgingly explained. ‘She wishes to go to Georgia, and I have just told her that it is impossible.’

“‘Hum!’ murmured Mr. Lincoln, looking down at me with a twinkle in his eye though his face was quite sober. ‘So you think she is too dangerous a person to receive a pass through our lines, Mr. Secretary?’

“‘I intend to issue no more passes, Mr. President,’ Mr. Stanton said bluntly.

“Again Mr. Lincoln looked down at me, drawing a long face.

“‘You know he’s quite right,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘The pass privilege has been greatly abused, no doubt of that, and when the Secretary of War puts his foot down there’s no moving him. I suppose we’ll have to go over to the Secretary of State and see what he can do for us.’

“Mr. Stanton snorted.

“‘Mr. President!’ he exploded, ‘is our cause to be jeopardized by the weakness of a man who can’t say “No”?’

“‘Is our cause so weak that it will be put in jeopardy by letting a little girl pass through our lines?’ Mr. Lincoln answered patiently.

“I don’t know what Mr. Stanton might have said to that, for before he could speak a man in uniform came hurrying in with a dispatch in his hand which he laid on the desk. The messenger himself seemed excited and much pleased, as if he bore good news. The Secretary glanced at it and then jumped to his feet with an exclamation of delight.

“‘This is better than we could possibly have expected, Mr. President!’ he cried, handing the paper to Mr. Lincoln. I do not know what it was all about, but it was plainly something which was favorable to the North, and I watched Mr. Lincoln as he took the message, only to see an expression of deep sadness come over his face. Whatever he read on the yellow slip in his hand brought no gladness to his heart. He stood there, forgetting all about us, and gazed out of the window with the look of one who had learned of a great sorrow.

“Mr. Stanton watched him for a moment and seemed to grow irritated at his lack of enthusiasm.

“‘Are you displeased with the news, Mr. President?’ he asked irritably.

“‘My grief is for all those who suffer,’ was the quiet answer and Mr. Lincoln handed back the message to the Secretary who sat down at his desk again.

“Then the President turned to me once more and, noting that Mr. Stanton was busying himself with other matters, he led me into an alcove beside a wide window and asked me all about myself; who I was, why I wanted to go South and if I was interested in the war? And I told him the truth, which was that I hadn’t thought very much about it.”

“And then I suppose he asked you if you’d read ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ and gave you a copy,” April cut in sarcastically.

Dorothea gave a funny little chuckle.

“Not exactly, but he did wish to know if I’d read it and what I thought of it. And I said I thought it very long, at which he seemed highly amused and agreed with me heartily. After that, for some time, he looked out of the window evidently thinking deeply, all the while jingling some keys or coins in his pocket, but at length he spoke again.

“‘My dear,’ he said, gently, ‘you tell me you are going South on a visit to a little country village. Perhaps, down there, you may escape this war. Maybe before you return it will be all over; but remember that the South is a part of my country as dear to me as is the North. I have ready a Proclamation of Amnesty for the whole South, from Mr. Davis down to the humblest citizen, which shall be published the moment they lay down their arms.’”

“The South will not have to beg Mr. Lincoln for mercy!” cried April. “But he seems to have made a Yankee of you, Cousin Dorothea,” she added, a little suspiciously.

“Oh, no,” Dorothea answered quickly. “I’ve always been for the South, you know. ’Most everybody in England is, but I do admire Mr. Lincoln. I can’t help that. He’s queer, and his clothes don’t fit him, and—and—Oh, I can’t explain what I feel—but, when you talk to him, you know in your heart that he is a great man.”

She spoke so earnestly and seriously that for a moment her hearers were impressed and there was silence around the table.

“I want to hear about your coming through the lines,” Harriot broke out at last. “It must have been great fun.”

“I think that had better wait till Dorothea is settled down,” Mrs. May said, rising to her feet. “Come with me, my dear, and I’ll show you to your room.”