was induced to desert.  He was captured, tried and sentenced to be shot—­the old story.  The poor girl had obtained the signatures of some persons who had formerly known him, to a petition for a pardon, and alone had come to Washington to lay the case before the President.  Thronged as the waiting-rooms always were, she had passed the long hours of two days trying in vain to get an audience, and had at length been ordered away.

The gentleman’s feelings were touched.  He said to her that he had come to see the President, but did not know as he should succeed.  He told her, however, to follow him upstairs, and he would see what could be done for her.  Just before reaching the door, Mr. Lincoln came out, and meeting his friend said good-humouredly, “Are you not ahead of time?” The gentleman showed him his watch, with the hand upon the hour of six.  “Well,” returned Mr. Lincoln, “I have been so busy to-day that I have not had time to get a lunch.  Go in, and sit down; I will be back directly.”

The gentleman made the young woman accompany him into the office, and, when they were seated, said to her, “Now, my good girl, I want you to muster all the courage you have in the world.  When the President comes back, he will sit down in that arm-chair.  I shall get up to speak to him, and as I do so you must force yourself between us, and insist upon the examination of your papers, telling him it is a case of life and death, and admits of no delay.”  These instructions were carried out to the letter.  Mr. Lincoln was at first somewhat surprised at the apparent forwardness of the young woman, but observing her distressed appearance, he ceased conversation with his friend, and commenced an examination of the document she had placed in his hands.  Glancing from it to the face of the petitioner, whose tears had broken forth afresh, he studied its expression for a moment, and then his eye fell upon her scanty but neat dress.  Instantly his face lighted up.  “My poor girl,” said he, “you have come here with no governor, or senator, or member of Congress, to plead your cause.  You seem honest and truthful; and you don’t wear hoops—­and I will be whipped but I will pardon your brother.”

HIS JOY IN GIVING A PARDON

One night Schuyler Colfax left all other business to ask him to respite the son of a constituent, who was sentenced to be shot, at Davenport, for desertion.  He heard the story with his usual patience, though he was wearied out with incessant calls, and anxious for rest, and then replied:—­“Some of our generals complain that I impair discipline and subordination in the army by my pardons and respites, but it makes me rested, after a hard day’s work, if I can find some good excuse for saving a man’s life, and I go to bed happy as I think how joyous the signing of my name will make him and his family and his friends.”  And with a happy smile beaming over that care-furrowed face, he signed that name that saved that life.