His long strides had carried him into the outskirts of the city, and suddenly, at a corner, from behind a hedge, a young boy of fifteen years or so came rushing toward him and tripped and stumbled against him, and Lincoln kept him from falling with a quick, vigorous arm.  The lad righted himself and tossed back his thick, light hair and stared haughtily, and the President, regarding him, saw that his blue eyes were blind with tears.

“Do you want all of the public highway?  Can’t a gentleman from the South even walk in the streets without—­without—­” and the broken sentence ended in a sob.

The anger and the insolence of the lad were nothing to the man who towered above him—­to that broad mind this was but a child in trouble.  “My boy, the fellow that’s interfering with your walking is down inside of you,” he said gently, and with that the astonished youngster opened his wet eyes wide and laughed—­a choking, childish laugh that pulled at the older man’s heart-strings.  “That’s better, sonny,” he said, and patted the slim shoulder.  “Now tell me what’s wrong with the world.  Maybe I might help straighten it.”

“Wrong, wrong!” the child raved; “everything’s wrong,” and launched into a mad tirade against the government from the President down.

Lincoln listened patiently, and when the lad paused for breath, “Go ahead,” he said good-naturedly.  “Every little helps.”

With that the youngster was silent and drew himself up with stiff dignity, offended yet fascinated; unable to tear himself away from this strange giant who was so insultingly kind under his abuse, who yet inspired him with such a sense of trust and of hope.

“I want a lawyer,” he said impulsively, looking up anxiously into the deep-lined face inches above him.  “I don’t know where to find a lawyer in this horrible city, and I must have one—­I can’t wait—­it may be too late—­I want a lawyer now” and once more he was in a fever of excitement.

“What do you want with a lawyer?” Again the calm, friendly tone quieted him.

“I want him to draw a will.  My brother is—­” he caught his breath with a gasp in a desperate effort for self-control.  “They say he’s—­dying.”  He finished the sentence with a quiver in his voice, and the brave front and the trembling, childish tone went to the man’s heart.  “I don’t believe it—­he can’t be dying,” the boy talked on, gathering courage.  “But anyway, he wants to make a will, and—­and I reckon—­it may be that he—­he must.”

“I see,” the other answered gravely, and the young, torn soul felt an unreasoning confidence that he had found a friend.  “Where is your brother?”

“He’s in the prison hospital there—­in that big building,” he pointed down the street.  “He’s captain in our army—­in the Confederate army.  He was wounded at Gettysburg.”

“Oh!” The deep-set eyes gazed down at the fresh face, its muscles straining under grief and responsibility, with the gentlest, most fatherly pity.  “I think I can manage your job, my boy,” he said.  “I used to practise law in a small way myself, and I’ll be glad to draw the will for you.”