wounded man put out his hand.

"Don't go yet," he pleaded, with the imperious, winning accent which
was characteristic of both brothers. The sudden, radiant smile broke
again over the face, young, drawn with suffering, prophetic of close
death. "I like you," he brought out frankly. "I've never liked a
stranger as much in such short order before."

His head, fair as the boy's, lay back on the pillows, locks of hair
damp against the whiteness, the blue eyes shone like jewels from the
colorless face, a weak arm stretched protectingly about the young
brother who pressed against him. There was so much courage, so much
helplessness, so much pathos in the picture that the President's great
heart throbbed with a desire to comfort them.

"I want to talk to you about that man Lincoln, your namesake," the
prisoner's deep, uncertain voice went on, trying pathetically to make
conversation which might interest, might hold his guest. The man who
stood hesitating controlled a startled movement. "I'm Southern to the
core of me, and I believe with my soul in the cause I've fought for,
the cause I'm--" he stopped, and his hand caressed the boy's shoulder.
"But that President of yours is a remarkable man. He's regarded as
a red devil by most of us down home, you know," and he laughed,
"but I've admired him all along. He's inspired by principle, not by
animosity, in this fight; he's real and he's powerful and"--he lifted
his head impetuously and his eyes flashed--"and, by Jove, have you
read his speech of yesterday in the papers?"

Lincoln gave him an odd look. "No," he said, "I haven't."