Can he control Stanton? He seemed to be more powerful than the President himself. What will that man do now with those who fall into his hands!"
"He can do nothing with your son, rest assured."
"I wish I knew it," said the mother, wistfully. ······· A few moments after the President died on Saturday morning, the rain began to pour in torrents. The flags that flew from a thousand gilt-tipped peaks in celebration of victory drooped to half-mast and hung weeping around their staffs. The litter of burnt fireworks, limp and crumbling, strewed the streets, and the tri-coloured lanterns and balloons, hanging pathetically from their wires, began to fall to pieces.
Never in all the history of man had such a conjunction of events befallen a nation. From the heights of heaven's rejoicing to be suddenly hurled to the depths of hell in piteous, helpless grief! Noon to midnight without a moment between. A pall of voiceless horror spread its shadows over the land. Nothing short of an earthquake or the sound of the archangel's trumpet could have produced the sense of helpless consternation, the black and speechless despair. The people read their papers in tears. The morning meal was untouched. By no other single feat could Death have carried such peculiar horror to every home. Around this giant figure, the heart-strings of the people had been unconsciously knit. Even his political enemies had come to love him.
Above all, in just this moment he was the incarnation of the Triumphant Union on the altar of whose life every
