hence just when the fruits of the victory were to be enjoyed; the pilot, bringing the ship safely into port through raging tempests and opposing tides but not permitted to step upon the solid land of peace and union.

Yet it was not his loss. The earthly crown he laid aside for a brighter and eternal one. He left the field of battle for the realms of everlasting peace. The tired head and weary heart were forever at rest.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE season of rejoicing had come. For the moment the gloom and darkness which had overspread the land had been dispelled. The cruel war was over. No longer would the papers be scanned eagerly, yet with sickening dread to find the news of some battle and tidings of dear ones overwhelmed, perchance, by the crimson tide of war. Gayly the old flag floated from every masthead. Joy and gladness abounded. Friends joyfully greeted each other, the smile of gladness breaking over faces even yet suffused with tears. But amid the blare of trumpets and the sounds of martial music, amid the clanging chimes and ringing cheers, might be heard the monotone of tolling bells and the sobs of a country about to be bereft of its ruler.

As sometimes on a summer's day a dark cloud passes quickly over the face of the sun, and its black shadow falls upon the earth, rejoicing in the brilliancy of day, like a pall upon the landscape, gliding over the distant hillsides, approaching noiselessly, perhaps unseen, until suddenly it covers the whole champaign with its sable mantle, leaving in its wake darkness and gloom, where but a moment before had been all light and joy and peace. So now amid the festivities and rejoicing, when all fears had been laid aside and naught of harm was dreaded, the shadow

of death was fast approaching. Already it was gliding down the distant hillsides and none saw it. Its sable folds were growing thicker and blacker as it approached, and yet the sun was shining never more brightly. So sudden was the transition from hope to despair, from joy to mourning.

His last day was a memorable one and largely free from the care and anxieties which had weighed him down with their burdens in the days and months that had passed. He had often been oppressed by premonitions and forebodings, but to-day he caught no glimpse of the shadow so close upon him. He was in exceptionally good spirits and was already beginning to enter with keen zest upon the new duties and questions suggested by the closing war. In the morning the family lingered long at the breakfasttable listening to a description of Lee's surrender given by Robert Lincoln, who had just returned from the front on a short furlough. He had been present at the historic scene and gave many details which the President had not before heard, and in which he was deeply interested.

After breakfast, he proceeded to his office, where he despatched some routine business and received a number of calls from Senators and Representatives, and from one or two of his old Illinois friends, all anxious to congratulate him upon the glorious close of the war. He greeted them all with cordiality, and afterwards went out for a short drive with General Grant, who was spending a few hours in Washington on business connected with the army. The sight of the illustrious General and his still more illustrious chief, was greeted with enthusiastic cheers, which

they smilingly acknowledged. After his return, Mr. Lincoln attended a Cabinet meeting, his last on earth. After congratulations, inquiries were made into the condition of the army, and the terms of surrender. General Grant, who was present, was asked regarding the whereabouts of General Sherman, but could not give much information on the subject, as he had not recently heard from him. Mr. Lincoln seemed especially anxious about him, and pressed the inquiry. Finding that nothing further could be

ascertained, he said:

"Gentlemen, I feel sure we shall hear news of Sherman, either good or bad, before night." Upon being asked why he thought so, he replied that he had had a dream the night before, which he had regularly had the night before some great event, and, as there was no other place in which to apprehend a catastrophe, he feared it for Sherman. He said that he had had it before the great battles of Bull Run, Antietam, Stone River and others. Some one asked him what the dream was, and he replied that he seemed to be on a great ship, under full sail on the ocean, approaching an unknown shore. The dream had never failed, and he believed that something would happen. Yet he did not seem to attach any personal meaning to it, nor apprehend that the disaster might be to himself.

After lunch, he went out for a drive with Mrs. Lincoln, for the day was a beautiful one, such a day as only the spring can bring, and that in the latitude of the Capital City. During the ride, he recalled many old memories and familiar scenes of his Springfield life, and a vein of sadness came over him, such

as memories of by-gone days, forever past, produce. He spoke of the trials and worries of the last four years, recalling rather the sad scenes they had passed through than the glorious triumphs he had achieved, and speaking in tenderest terms of the son, William Wallace, who had died at the White House and whose memory he cherished with the warmest affection. He then spoke hopefully of the future, remarking that they would be able to save but little from the Presidential salary, and that, at the close of his term, they would return to Chicago or Springfield, buy a house and he would resume his law practice, and they would pass the remainder of their lives in peace and quiet. He longed for the time to come when he might throw aside the cares that were so oppressive, and enjoy the much-needed rest. Sweet and comforting was this planning for the future. But abiding rest was much nearer the weary frame than he knew. Already the darkness of the shadow was upon him.

Upon his return he found on his desk an application for the discharge of a rebel prisoner, upon taking the oath of allegiance. He took his pen, which had always been so ready to do an act of mercy and so reluctant to confirm a sentence which law and justice had passed, and wrote across the back of it the words, "Let it be done." His last official.order!

He had that morning accepted an invitation to attend Ford's Theatre that evening and witness the presentation of the popular play, "Our American Cousin." He seldom allowed himself time for rest and recreation, but he felt that he could better do so now. He did not stop to consider the danger that he incurred by thus appearing in a public resort,