operation the policy which had, to some extent, been outlined in the States already partially reconstructed. So far as it is possible to forecast the future from the past, it is certain that if he had lived, many of the unfortunate complications would have been avoided which were destined to leave a lasting impress upon the South in sectional bitterness perpetuated in crippled prosperity, and a general feeling of distrust between the sections which two and a half decades have scarcely been able to heal.

But it is useless to speculate as to what might have been. It is certain that there was no moment in his whole career so fitted to bring about his apotheosis. Had he lived longer his career might have been clouded by adverse circumstances over which he could have had no control; for it is well known that, when a country is at war, in a condition of great peril, all the diverse elements are concentrated to the support of a government, which, in times of peace, many of them would violently oppose. Hence much might have occurred to tarnish his brilliant reputation and lower him from the high place to which his successful conduct of the war had raised him. The bullet struck him at the zenith of his glory. The war was ended. The country was once more united. The fresh woven wreath of victory was on his temples. The country rejoiced in its preservation and revered him as its preserver. Riding on the crest of the tidal wave of success naught but the martyr's crown could add to his laurels. It came, and Lincoln's memory was forever enshrined in the hearts of his countrymen. It is heartrending to think of the great chief, bearing all the terrible burden of the conflict and passing

hence just when the fruits of the victory were to be enjoyed; the pilot, bringing the ship safely into port through raging tempests and opposing tides but not permitted to step upon the solid land of peace and union.

Yet it was not his loss. The earthly crown he laid aside for a brighter and eternal one. He left the field of battle for the realms of everlasting peace. The tired head and weary heart were forever at rest.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE season of rejoicing had come. For the moment the gloom and darkness which had overspread the land had been dispelled. The cruel war was over. No longer would the papers be scanned eagerly, yet with sickening dread to find the news of some battle and tidings of dear ones overwhelmed, perchance, by the crimson tide of war. Gayly the old flag floated from every masthead. Joy and gladness abounded. Friends joyfully greeted each other, the smile of gladness breaking over faces even yet suffused with tears. But amid the blare of trumpets and the sounds of martial music, amid the clanging chimes and ringing cheers, might be heard the monotone of tolling bells and the sobs of a country about to be bereft of its ruler.

As sometimes on a summer's day a dark cloud passes quickly over the face of the sun, and its black shadow falls upon the earth, rejoicing in the brilliancy of day, like a pall upon the landscape, gliding over the distant hillsides, approaching noiselessly, perhaps unseen, until suddenly it covers the whole champaign with its sable mantle, leaving in its wake darkness and gloom, where but a moment before had been all light and joy and peace. So now amid the festivities and rejoicing, when all fears had been laid aside and naught of harm was dreaded, the shadow

of death was fast approaching. Already it was gliding down the distant hillsides and none saw it. Its sable folds were growing thicker and blacker as it approached, and yet the sun was shining never more brightly. So sudden was the transition from hope to despair, from joy to mourning.

His last day was a memorable one and largely free from the care and anxieties which had weighed him down with their burdens in the days and months that had passed. He had often been oppressed by premonitions and forebodings, but to-day he caught no glimpse of the shadow so close upon him. He was in exceptionally good spirits and was already beginning to enter with keen zest upon the new duties and questions suggested by the closing war. In the morning the family lingered long at the breakfasttable listening to a description of Lee's surrender given by Robert Lincoln, who had just returned from the front on a short furlough. He had been present at the historic scene and gave many details which the President had not before heard, and in which he was deeply interested.

After breakfast, he proceeded to his office, where he despatched some routine business and received a number of calls from Senators and Representatives, and from one or two of his old Illinois friends, all anxious to congratulate him upon the glorious close of the war. He greeted them all with cordiality, and afterwards went out for a short drive with General Grant, who was spending a few hours in Washington on business connected with the army. The sight of illustrious General and his still more illustrious

was greeted with enthusiastic cheers, which

they smilingly acknowledged. After his return, Mr. Lincoln attended a Cabinet meeting, his last on earth. After congratulations, inquiries were made into the condition of the army, and the terms of surrender. General Grant, who was present, was asked regarding the whereabouts of General Sherman, but could not give much information on the subject, as he had not recently heard from him. Mr. Lincoln seemed especially anxious about him, and pressed the inquiry. Finding that nothing further could be ascertained, he said:

“Gentlemen, I feel sure we shall hear news of Sherman, either good or bad, before night." Upon being asked why he thought so, he replied that he had had a dream the night before, which he had regularly had the night before some great event, and, as there was no other place in which to apprehend a catastrophe, he feared it for Sherman. He said that he had had it before the great battles of Bull Run, Antietam, Stone River and others. Some one asked him what the dream was, and he replied that he seemed to be on a great ship, under full sail on the ocean, approaching an unknown shore. The dream had never failed, and he believed that something would happen. Yet he did not seem to attach any personal meaning to it, nor apprehend that the disaster might be to himself.

After lunch, he went out for a drive with Mrs. Lincoln, for the day was a beautiful one, such a day as only the spring can bring, and that in the latitude of the Capital City. During the ride, he recalled many old memories and familiar scenes of his Springfield life, and a vein of sadness came over him, such