your work. I will
have my way in this matter; but I will attend to it personally."

Stanton resumed his seat, and the President returned to the White House.

CHAPTER IV

A CLASH OF GIANTS

Elsie secured from the Surgeon-General temporary passes for the day, and
sent her friends to the hospital with the promise that she would not leave
the White House until she had secured the pardon.

The President greeted her with unusual warmth. The smile that had only
haunted his sad face during four years of struggle, defeat, and
uncertainty had now burst into joy that made his powerful head radiate
light. Victory had lifted the veil from his soul, and he was girding
himself for the task of healing the Nation's wounds.

"I'll have it ready for you in a moment, Miss Elsie," he said, touching
with his sinewy hand a paper which lay on his desk, bearing on its face
the red seal of the Republic. "I am only waiting to receive the passes."

"I am very grateful to you, Mr. President," the girl said feelingly.

"But tell me," he said, with quaint, fatherly humour, "why you, of all our
girls, the brightest, fiercest little Yankee in town, so take to heart a
rebel boy's sorrows?"

Elsie blushed, and then looked at him frankly with a saucy smile.

"I am fulfilling the Commandments."

"Love your enemies?"

"Certainly. How could one help loving the sweet, motherly face you saw
yesterday."

The President laughed heartily. "I see--of course, of course!"

"The Honourable Austin Stoneman," suddenly announced a clerk at his
elbow.

Elsie started in surprise and whispered:

"Do not let my father know I am here. I will wait in the next room. You'll
let nothing delay the pardon, will you, Mr. President?"

Mr. Lincoln warmly pressed her hand as she disappeared through the door
leading into Major Hay's room, and turned to meet the Great Commoner who
hobbled slowly in, leaning on his crooked cane.

At this moment he was a startling and portentous figure in the drama of
the Nation, the most powerful parliamentary leader in American history,
not excepting Henry Clay.

No stranger ever passed this man without a second look. His clean-shaven
face, the massive chiselled features, his grim eagle look, and cold,
colourless eyes, with the frosts of his native Vermont sparkling in their
depths, compelled attention.

His walk was a painful hobble. He was lame in both feet, and one of them
was deformed. The left leg ended in a mere bun