“In the first days of the war,” he said, “a flag flew there in sight of the place where George Washington lived and died.  I used to watch that flag, and thank God that Washington had not lived to see it.  And sometimes, sometimes I wondered if God had allowed it to be put in irony just there.”  His voice seemed to catch.  “That was wrong,” he continued.  “I should have known that this was our punishment—­that the sight of it was my punishment.  Before we could become the great nation He has destined us to be, our sins must be wiped out in blood.  You loved that flag, Virginia.  You love it still.

“I say in all sincerity, may you always love it.  May the day come when this Nation, North and South, may look back upon it with reverence.  Thousands upon thousands of brave Americans have died under it for what they believed was right.  But may the day come again when you will love that flag you see there now—­Washington’s flag—­better still.”

He stopped, and the tears were wet upon Virginia’s lashes.  She could not have spoken then.

Mr. Lincoln went over to his desk and sat down before it.  Then he began to write, slouched forward, one knee resting on the floor, his lips moving at the same time.  When he got up again he seemed taller than ever.

“There!” he said, “I guess that will fix it.  I’ll have that sent to Sherman.  I have already spoken to him about the matter.”

They did not thank him.  It was beyond them both.  He turned to Stephen with that quizzical look on his face he had so often seen him wear.

“Steve,” he said, “I’ll tell you a story.  The other night Harlan was here making a speech to a crowd out of the window, and my boy Tad was sitting behind him.

“‘What shall we do with the Rebels?’ said Harlan to the crowd.

“’Hang ’em!’ cried the people. “‘No,’ says Tad, ’hang on to ’em.’

“And the boy was right.  That is what we intend to do,—­hang on to ’em.  And, Steve,” said Mr. Lincoln, putting his hand again on Virginia’s shoulder, “if you have the sense I think you have, you’ll hang on, too.”

For an instant he stood smiling at their blushes,—­he to whom the power was given to set apart his cares and his troubles and partake of the happiness of others.  For of such was his happiness.

Then the President drew out his watch.  “Bless me!” he said, “I am ten minutes behind my appointment at the Department.  Miss Virginia, you may care to thank the Major for the little service he has done you.  You can do so undisturbed here.  Make yourselves at home.”

As he opened the door he paused and looked back at them.  The smile passed from his face, and an ineffable expression of longing—­longing and tenderness—­came upon it.

Then he was gone.

For a space, while his spell was upon them, they did not stir.  Then Stephen sought her eyes that had been so long denied him.  They were not denied him now.  It was Virginia who first found her voice, and she called him by his name.