four in the afternoon, he felt sorely the need of air and went out
from the White House alone, for a walk. His mind still ran on the
events of the day before--the impressive, quiet multitude, the serene
sky of November arched, in the hushed interregnum of the year, between
the joy of summer and the war of winter, over those who had gone from
earthly war to heavenly joy. The picture was deeply engraved in his
memory; it haunted him. And with it came a soreness, a discomfort of
mind which had haunted him as well in the hours between--the chagrin
of the failure of his speech. During the day he had gently but
decisively put aside all reference to it from those about him; he had
glanced at the head-lines in the newspapers with a sarcastic smile;
the Chief Executive must he flattered, of course; newspaper notices
meant nothing. He knew well that he had made many successful speeches;
no man of his shrewdness could be ignorant that again and again he
had carried an audience by storm; yet he had no high idea of his own
speech-making, and yesterday's affair had shaken his confidence more.
He remembered sadly that, even for the President, no hand, no voice
had been lifted in applause.

"It must have been pretty poor stuff," he said half aloud; "yet I
thought it was a fair little composition. I meant to do well by them."

His long strides had carried him into the outskirts of the city, and
suddenly, at a corner, from behind a hedge, a young boy of fifteen
years or so came rushing toward him and tripped and stumbled against
him, and Lincoln kept him from falling with a quick, vigorous arm. The
lad righted himself and tossed back his thick, light hair and stared
haughtily, and the President, regarding him, saw that his blue eyes
were blind with tears.