ns
of a Union fixed in eternal granite, he stood forth the idol of the
people, the first great American, the foremost man of the world.

There was a stir at the door, and the tall figure suddenly loomed in view
of the crowd. With one impulse they leaped to their feet, and shout after
shout shook the building. The orchestra was playing "Hail to the Chief!"
but nobody heard it. They saw the Chief! They were crying their own
welcome in music that came from the rhythmic beat of human hearts.

As the President walked along the aisle with Mrs. Lincoln, accompanied by
Senator Harris' daughter and Major Rathbone, cheer after cheer burst from
the crowd. He turned, his face beaming with pleasure, and bowed as he
passed.

The answer of the crowd shook the building to its foundations, and the
President paused. His dark face flashed with emotion as he looked over the
sea of cheering humanity. It was a moment of supreme exaltation. The
people had grown to know and love and trust him, and it was sweet. His
face, lit with the responsive fires of emotion, was transfigured. The soul
seemed to separate itself from its dreamy, rugged dwelling-place and flash
its inspiration from the spirit world.

As around this man's personality had gathered the agony and horror of war,
so now about his head glowed and gleamed in imagination the splendours of
victory.

Margaret impulsively put her hand on Phil's arm:

"Why, how Southern he looks! How tall and dark and typical his whole
figure!"

"Yes, and his traits of character even more typical," said Phil. "On the
surface, easy friendly ways and the tenderness of a woman--beneath, an
iron will and lion heart. I like him. And what always amazes me is his
universality. A Southerner finds in him the South, the Western man the
West, even Charles Sumner, from Boston, almost loves him. You know I think
he is the first great all-round American who ever lived in the White
House."

The President's party had now entered the box, and as Mr. Lincoln took the
armchair nearest the audience, in full view of every eye in the house,
again the cheers rent the air. In vain Withers' baton flew, and the
orchestra did its best. The music was drowned as in the roar of the sea.
Again he rose and bowed and smiled, his face radiant with pleasure. The
soul beneath those deep-cut lines had long pined for the sunlight. His
love of the theatre and the humorous story were the protest of his heart
against pain and tragedy.