sociation, which office I continue to
hold.

For two years after Willie's death the White House was the scene of no
fashionable display. The memory of the dead boy was duly respected. In
some things Mrs. Lincoln was an altered woman. Sometimes, when in her
room, with no one present but myself, the mere mention of Willie's name
would excite her emotion, and any trifling memento that recalled him
would move her to tears. She could not bear to look upon his picture;
and after his death she never crossed the threshold of the Guest's Room
in which he died, or the Green Room in which he was embalmed. There was
something supernatural in her dread of these things, and something that
she could not explain. Tad's nature was the opposite of Willie's, and he
was always regarded as his father's favorite child. His black eyes
fairly sparkled with mischief.

The war progressed, fair fields had been stained with blood, thousands
of brave men had fallen, and thousands of eyes were weeping for the
fallen at home. There were desolate hearthstones in the South as well as
in the North, and as the people of my race watched the sanguinary
struggle, the ebb and flow of the tide of battle, they lifted their
faces Zionward, as if they hoped to catch a glimpse of the Promised Land
beyond the sulphureous clouds of smoke which shifted now and then but to
reveal ghastly rows of new-made graves. Sometimes the very life of the
nation seemed to tremble with the fierce shock of arms. In 1863 the
Confederates were flushed with victory, and sometimes it looked as if
the proud flag of the Union, the glorious old Stars and Stripes, must
yield half its nationality to the tri-barred flag that floated grandly
over long columns of gray. These were sad, anxious days to Mr. Lincoln,
and those who saw the man in privacy only could tell how much he
suffered. One day he came into the room where I was fitting a dress on
Mrs. Lincoln. His step was slow and heavy, and his face sad. Like a
tired child he threw himself upon a sofa, and shaded his eyes with his
hands. He was a complete picture of dejection. Mrs. Lincoln, observing
his troubled look, asked:

"Where have you been, father?"

"To the War Department," was the brief, almost sullen answer.

"Any news?"

"Yes, plenty of news, but no good news. It is dark, dark everywhere."

He reached forth one of his long arms, and took a small Bible from a
stand near the head of the sofa, opened the pages of the holy bo