ing like the election of a
President should make no change in the firm of Lincoln and Herndon. If
I live I'm coming back some time and then we'll go right on with the
practice of the law as if nothing had happened."

Then--that Monday morning in Springfield when at eight o'clock on the
eleventh of February the train bore him toward the great task of his
life. Hannah Armstrong, who had foxed his trousers in New Salem, and
the venerable Doctor Allen and the Brimsteads, and Aleck Ferguson, bent
with age, and Harry Needles and Bim and their four handsome children, and
my father and mother, and Betsey, my maiden sister, and Eli Fredenberg
were there in the crowd to bid him good-by.

A quartet sang. Mr. Lincoln asked his friends and neighbors to pray for
his success. He was moved by the sight of them and could not have said
much if he had tried. The bell rang. The train started. He waved his hand
and was gone. Not many of us who stood trying to see through our tears
were again to look upon him. The years of preparation were ended and
those of sacrifice had begun.

Now, we are at the foot of the last hill. For a long time I had seen it
looming in the distance. Those days it filled my heart with a great fear.
Now, how beautiful, how lonely it seems! Oh, but what a vineyard in that
very fruitful hill! I speak low when I think of it. Harry Needles and I
were on our way to Washington that fateful night of April 14, 1865. We
reached there at an early hour in the morning. We made our way through
the crowded streets to the little house opposite Ford's Theatre. An
officer who knew me cleared a way for us to the door. Reporters,
statesmen, citizens and their families were massed in the street waiting
with tear-stained faces for the end. Some of them were sobbing as we
passed. We were admitted without delay. A minister and the doctor sat by
the bedside. The latter held an open watch in his hand. I could hear it
ticking the last moments in an age of history. What a silence as the
great soul of my friend was "breaking camp to go home." Friends of the
family and members of the Cabinet were in the room. Through the open door
of a room beyond I saw Mrs. Lincoln and the children and others. We
looked at our friend lying on the bed. His kindly face was pale and
haggard. He breathed faintly and at long intervals. His end was near.

"Poor Abe!" Harry whispered as be looked down at him. "He has had to die
on the cross."

To most of those oth