not
been successfully portrayed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Empty Room

My father was a loyal G. A. R. man. To him, naturally, the literature,
the ceremonies and the comradeship of the Grand Army of the Republic
were of heroic significance for, notwithstanding all other events of his
stirring life, his two years as a soldier remained his most moving, most
poetic experience. On all special occasions he wore the regulation blue
coat with the bronze button of the Legion in its lapel, and faithfully
attended all the local meetings of his "Post," but he had not been able
to take part in the National Conventions for the double reason that they
were always too far away from his Dakota home and invariably came at the
time when his presence was most needed on the farm. With a feeling of
mingled envy and sadness he had seen his comrades, year after year,
jubilantly set out for Washington or Boston or San Francisco whilst he
remained at work.

Now the case was different. He had the money, he had the leisure and the
Grand Review was about to take place in Chicago. "Hamlin," said he, on
the morning after my return from Montana, "I want you to go with me to
the G. A. R. meeting in Chicago."

Although I did not say so, I was sadly averse to making this trip.
Aching to write, impatient to get my new conceptions down on paper, I
could hardly restrain an expression of reluctance, but I did, for the
old soldier, more afraid of towns than of mountains, needed me in the
city.

"All right, father," I said, and put my notes away.

He made a handsome figure in his new suit, and his broad-rimmed hat with
its gold cord. He was as excited as a boy when we set out for the
station and commented with a tone of satisfaction on the number of his
comrades to be seen on the train. He was not in need of me during this
part of his excursion for he hailed every old soldier as "Comrade" and
made a dozen new friendships before we reached Madison. No one resented
his fraternal interest. Occasionally he brought one of his acquaintances
over to my seat, explaining with perfectly obvious pride that I had
written a history of General Grant and that I lived in Chicago. "I'm
taking him along to be my scout," he declared, at the close of each
introduction.

At my lodgings on Elm Street he made himself so beloved that I feared
for his digestion. The landlady and the cook were determined that he
should eat hot biscuit and jam and pie in addition to roa