“Send an orderly to those women and see what they want.”

Each of the waiting women handed credentials to the young man, and each in turn arose trembling and stood before the decisive official at the great, paper-strewn desk.  There was no attempt to soften the refusal, as he turned curtly from the pleaders; and Olympia, shrinking from the ordeal, was about to step out of the room, when a tall, care-worn man shambled in, glancing pityingly at her as she arose, half trembling, recognizing the President.

She stepped in front of him in a desperate impulse, and, throwing up her veil, cried piteously: 

“O Mr. Lincoln, you are a father, you have a tender heart; you will listen to the bereaved!” He stopped, looking at her kindly, and put his left arm wearily on the desk by his side.

“Yes, my poor girl, I am a father and have a heart; the more’s the pity, for just now something else is needed in its place.  I suppose your father is over yonder,” and he nodded toward the Virginia shore.

“O Mr. Lincoln, my father is farther away than that.  My father was Senator Sprague—­you served with him in Congress—­I—­I—­thought that perhaps you might take pity on his widow, his daughter, his son, if the poor boy is still living, and—­and—­”

“Send you across the lines?”

“Oh, if God would put it in your heart!”

“It’s in my heart fast enough, my poor child, but—­”

“Impossible, Mr. President!  The enemy, as it is, can open a Sabine campaign on us, and tie our hands by stretching Northern women out in a line of battle between the ranks!”

It was the weary, discouraging voice of the Secretary, imperiously implying that the Executive must not interpose weakness and mercy where Draconian rigor sat enthroned.  The President smiled sadly.

“Ah, Mr. Secretary, a sister—­a mother—­give a great deal for the country.  We can not err much in granting their prayer.  Make out an order—­for whom?”

Olympia, speechless with gratitude reverence could hardly articulate: 

“My mother, myself, and Miss Marcia Perley.”

“Another mother?”

“Her boy is not of age, and ran away to join my brother’s company.”  She had a woman’s presence of mind to answer with this diplomatic evasion.

“I’m afraid you will only add to your distress, my poor child; but you shall go.”  He inclined his head benignantly and passed into the inner sanctuary behind the rail, when Olympia heard the Secretary say, grimly: 

“I shall take measures to stop this sort of thing, Mr. President.  Hereafter you shall only come to this department at certain hours.  At all other times the doors shall be guarded.”

A gray-haired man in undress uniform presently appeared, and as he handed Olympia the large official envelope he said, respectfully: 

“You never heard of me, Miss Sprague?  Many years ago the Senator, your father, did a kind turn for my brother—­an employe in the Treasury.  If I can be of any aid to you in this painful business, pray give me a chance to show a kindness to the family of a great and good man.  My name is Charles Bevan, and it is signed to one of the papers in this letter.”