ad so painfully hoarded in an old wallet during the four years of
waiting.

It was not a large sum after all, for Mr. Rosenfelt was not a rich man
and his business interests had suffered during the war. And, it must
be confessed, several times Morris had yielded to temptation and had
broken into his little treasury to buy some toy or pleasure that he
felt he just must have, intending to pay himself back as soon as he
could earn the money. But chores were few and brought little, and even
his uncle's _barmitzvah_ present of five dollars failed to raise the
sum above fifteen. Still that was a good deal, thought Morris,
although he couldn't buy a gold watch with it. But he had grown up a
little during the past four years and realized that probably Mr.
Lincoln had a gold watch, anyhow. And so, much as he hated to do it,
for he wanted the secret to be all his own, he decided to ask his
father's advice and waited impatiently for him to come in from the
porch, where he stood talking with a neighbor, and have breakfast the
Saturday morning after peace was declared.

Although he was only a boy of thirteen at the time, Morris never
forgot how the parlor looked that day with the flag draped over
Harry's picture taken in uniform, the pale sunshine of early spring
streaming upon the bright red geranium plant on the marble-topped
table. There was a large tidy on the table, a doily his mother had
crotched, his mother who started up with a cry of alarm as Mr.
Rosenfelt entered, his face white with terror.

"Harry----" was all she could say for a moment. Then, when she could
control her voice a little: "Has anything happened to our Harry?"

Her husband shook his head. "No," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone
that contrasted strangely with his dreadful pallor. "Harry, thank God,
is safe and will soon be on his way home. But President Lincoln----"

"Yes?" cried Mrs. Rosenfelt, "the president?"

"He was shot last evening by an assassin. He has just died," answered
her husband, and he spoke as one speaks of a dear friend.

"It can't be true," cried Morris, hotly. "No one would hurt him--he
was so good--we all loved him so." The tears ran down his face as he
spoke and for once he was not ashamed to have his father see him cry.
Without another word he turned and ran upstairs to his own room. The
little blue bank still standing upon the dresser hurt him with a
sudden memory. He was comparatively rich now, but he hated the fifteen
doll