Virginia had risen now.  She crossed the room, her head lifted, her heart lifted, to where this man of sorrows stood smiling down at her.

“Mr. Lincoln,” she faltered, “I did not know you when I came here.  I should have known you, for I had heard him—­I had heard Major Brice praise you.  Oh,” she cried, “how I wish that every man and woman and child in the South might come here and see you as I have seen you to-day.  I think—­I think that some of their bitterness might be taken away.”

Abraham Lincoln laid his hands upon the girl.  And Stephen, watching, knew that he was looking upon a benediction.

“Virginia,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I have not suffered by the South, I have suffered with the South Your sorrow has been my sorrow, and your pain has been my pain.  What you have lost, I have lost.  And what you have gained,” he added sublimely, “I have gained.”

He led her gently to the window.  The clouds were flying before the wind, and a patch of blue sky shone above the Potomac.  With his long arm he pointed across the river to the southeast, and as if by a miracle a shaft of sunlight fell on the white houses of Alexandria.

“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.