did his soul completely break down under the strain.

An officer whom he loved had been censured by one of his commanding
generals who demanded his removal. This censure was conveyed to the
President in a letter marked "Private."

The officer was removed. Hard as the duty was, he felt that as the
servant of his country he had no other choice.

Flushed and indignant, his old friend called.

"You know me, Mr. President," he cried passionately. "How can I ever
hold my head up again under censure from you--one of my oldest and best
friends?"

The muscles of the drawn face twitched with nervous agony. He could not
with his high sense of honor as President tell this man that he loved
him and found no fault with him. To make his acceptance of the situation
easier, his only course was to roust his friend's anger.

He turned and said curtly:

"You have, I believe, received your orders. I can suggest nothing but
obedience."

Too angry to ask an explanation, he strode from the room without a word.

The President closed his desk, climbed the steep hill of the Capitol
Square, walked home in brooding silence, and locked himself in his room
without eating his dinner.

Alarmed at his absence, Mrs. Davis at last gently rapped on his door.
With tender tact she drew from his reluctant lips the story.

Turning his dimmed eyes on hers, he burst out in tones of quivering
anguish:

"Oh, my Winnie dear, how could any man with a soul write a letter like
that, mark it private and force me to plunge a knife into the heart of
my best friend and leave it there without a word--"

"You should have told your friend the whole truth!"

"No--he could have made trouble in the army. His commander knew that I
could bear it best."

"You must try to mingle more with those men, dear," his wife pleaded.
"Use your brains and personality to win them. You can do it."

"At the cost of precious hours I can give to better service for my
country. No. I've given my life to the South. I'll eat my heart out in
silence if I must--"

He paused and looked at her tenderly.

"Only your friendly eyes shall see, my dear. After all, what does it
matter what men think of me now? If we succeed, we shall hear no more of
malcontents. If we do not succeed, I shall be held accountable by both
friend and foe. It's written so in the book of life. I must accept it.
I'll just do my best and God will give me strength to bear what comes."

And so while the South was