myself."

The boy had sprung to his feet and across the room, and had lifted
a folded newspaper from the table. "Let me read it, Carter--it might
tire you."

The giant figure which had crouched, elbows on knees, in the shadows
by the narrow hospital cot, heaved itself slowly upward till it loomed
at its full height in air. Lincoln turned his face toward the boy
standing under the flickering gas-jet and reading with soft, sliding
inflections the words which had for twenty-four hours been gall and
wormwood to his memory. And as the sentences slipped from the lad's
mouth, behold, a miracle happened, for the man who had written them
knew that they were great. He knew then, as many a lesser one has
known, that out of a little loving-kindness had come great joy; that
he had wrested with gentleness a blessing from his enemy.

"'Fourscore and seven years ago,'" the fresh voice began, and the
face of the dying man stood out white in the white pillows, sharp with
eagerness, and the face of the President shone as he listened as if to
new words. The field of yesterday, the speech, the deep silence which
followed it, all were illuminated, as his mind went back, with new
meaning. With the realization that the stillness had meant, not
indifference, but perhaps, as this generous enemy had said, "The most
perfect tribute ever paid by any people to any orator," there came
to him a rush of glad strength to bear the burdens of the nation. The
boy's tones ended clearly, deliberately:

"'We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain,
that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and