Christ crucified.

"Pray God that you may feel sorry for me again," he said.

Awed, the child on his lap was still. The politician had left the room.
Mr. Lincoln had kept Stephen's hand in his own.

"I have hopes of you, Stephen," he said. "Do not forget me."

Stephen Brice never has. Why was it that he walked to the station with a
heavy heart? It was a sense of the man he had left, who had been and was
to be. This Lincoln of the black loam, who built his neighbor's cabin
and hoed his neighbor's corn, who had been storekeeper and postmaster
and flat-boatman. Who had followed a rough judge dealing a rough justice
around a rough circuit; who had rolled a local bully in the dirt;
rescued women from insult; tended the bedside of many a sick coward who
feared the Judgment; told coarse stories on barrels by candlelight (but
these are pure beside the vice of great cities); who addressed political
mobs in the raw, swooping down from the stump and flinging embroilers
east and west. This physician who was one day to tend the sickbed of the
Nation in her agony; whose large hand was to be on her feeble pulse, and
whose knowledge almost divine was to perform the miracle of her healing.
So was it that, the Physician Himself performed His cures, and when work
was done, died a martyr.

Abraham Lincoln died in His name

CHAPTER VI. GLENCOE

It was nearly noon when Stephen walked into the office the next day,
dusty and travel-worn and perspiring. He had come straight from the
ferry, without going home. And he had visions of a quiet dinner with
Richter under the trees at the beer-garden, where he could talk about
Abraham Lincoln. Had Richter ever heard of Lincoln?

But the young German met him at the top of the stair--and his face was
more serious than usual, although he showed his magnificent teeth in a
smile of welcome.

"You are a little behind your time, my friend," said he, "What has
happened you?"

"Didn't the Judge get Mr. Lincoln's message?" asked Stephen, with
anxiety.

The German shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, I know not," he answered, "He has gone is Glencoe. The Judge is
ill, Stephen. Doctor Polk says that he has worked all his life too hard.
The Doctor and Colonel Carvel tried to get him to go to Glencoe. But
he would not budge until Miss Carvel herself comes all the way from the
country yesterday, and orders him. Ach!" exclaimed Richter, impulsively,
"what wonderful women you have in America! I could lose