But her spirits sank when they came to the anteroom.  It was full of all sorts of people.  Politicians, both prosperous and seedy, full faced and keen faced, seeking office; women, officers, and a one-armed soldier sitting in the corner.  He was among the men who offered Virginia their seats, and the only one whom she thanked.  But she walked directly to the doorkeeper at the end of the room.  Captain Lige was beside her.

“Can we see the President?” he asked.

“Have you got an appointment?” said the old man.

“No.”

“Then you’ll have to wait your turn, sir,” he said, shaking his head and looking at Virginia.  And he added.  “It’s slow work waiting your turn, there’s so many governors and generals and senators, although the session’s over.  It’s a busy time, miss.”

Virginia went very close to him.

“Oh, can’t you do something?” she said.  And added, with an inspiration, “I must see him.  It’s a matter of life and death.”

She saw instantly, with a woman’s instinct, that these words had had their effect.  The old man glanced at her again, as if demurring.

“You’re sure, miss, it’s life and death?” he said.

“Oh, why should I say so if it were not?” she cried.

“The orders are very strict,” he said.  “But the President told me to give precedence to cases when a life is in question.  Just you wait a minute, miss, until Governor Doddridge comes out, and I’ll see what I can do for you.  Give me your name, please, miss.”

She remained standing where she was.  In a little while the heavy door opened, and a portly, rubicund man came out with a smile on his face.  He broke into a laugh, when halfway across the room, as if the memory of what he had heard were too much for his gravity.  The doorkeeper slipped into the room, and there was a silent, anxious interval.  Then he came out again.

“The President will see you, miss.”

Captain Lige started forward with her, but she restrained him.

“Wait for me here, Lige,” she said.

She swept in alone, and the door closed softly after her.  The room was a big one, and there were maps on the table, with pins sticking in them.  She saw that much, and then—!

Could this fantastically tall, stooping figure before her be that of the President of the United States?  She stopped, as from the shock he gave her.  The lean, yellow face with the mask-like lines all up and down, the unkempt, tousled hair, the beard—­why, he was a hundred times more ridiculous than his caricatures.  He might have stood for many of the poor white trash farmers she had seen in Kentucky—­save for the long black coat.

“Is—­is this Mr. Lincoln?” she asked, her breath taken away.

He bowed and smiled down at her.  Somehow that smile changed his face a little.

“I guess I’ll have to own up,” he answered.

“My name is Virginia Carvel,” she said.  “I have come all the way from St. Louis to see you.”