awkward man slouched back across the platform and sank into his seat, and yet there was no sound of approval, of recognition from the audience; only a long sigh ran like a ripple on an ocean through rank after rank.  In Lincoln’s heart a throb of pain answered it.  His speech had been, as he feared it would be, a failure.  As he gazed steadily at these his countrymen who would not give him even a little perfunctory applause for his best effort, he knew that the disappointment of it cut into his soul.  And then he was aware that there was music, the choir was singing a dirge; his part was done, and his part had failed.

When the ceremonies were over Everett at once found the President.  “Mr. President,” he began, “your speech—­” but Lincoln had interrupted, flashing a kindly smile down at him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll manage not to talk about my speech, Mr. Everett,” he said.  “This isn’t the first time I’ve felt that my dignity ought not to permit me to be a public speaker.”

He went on in a few cordial sentences to pay tribute to the orator of the occasion.  Everett listened thoughtfully and when the chief had done, “Mr. President,” he said simply, “I should be glad if I could flatter myself that I came as near the central idea of the occasion in two hours as you did in two minutes.”

But Lincoln shook his head and laughed and turned to speak to a newcomer with no change of opinion—­he was apt to trust his own judgments.

The special train which left Gettysburg immediately after the solemnities on the battle-field cemetery brought the President’s party into Washington during the night.  There was no rest for the man at the wheel of the nation next day, but rather added work until, at about four in the afternoon, he felt sorely the need of air and went out from the White House alone, for a walk.  His mind still ran on the events of the day before—­the impressive, quiet multitude, the serene sky of November arched, in the hushed interregnum of the year, between the joy of summer and the war of winter, over those who had gone from earthly war to heavenly joy.  The picture was deeply engraved in his memory; it haunted him.  And with it came a soreness, a discomfort of mind which had haunted him as well in the hours between—­the chagrin of the failure of his speech.  During the day he had gently but decisively put aside all reference to it from those about him; he had glanced at the head-lines in the newspapers with a sarcastic smile; the Chief Executive must he flattered, of course; newspaper notices meant nothing.  He knew well that he had made many successful speeches; no man of his shrewdness could be ignorant that again and again he had carried an audience by storm; yet he had no high idea of his own speech-making, and yesterday’s affair had shaken his confidence more.  He remembered sadly that, even for the President, no hand, no voice had been lifted in applause.

“It must have been pretty poor stuff,” he said half aloud; “yet I thought it was a fair little composition.  I meant to do well by them.”