room, with the door closed behind him. The room was empty, yet filled.
There was but one man in it besides Jason, but that man was Mr. Lincoln.
He sat at a desk, with his somber eyes on Jason's face--still a cool
young face, despite trembling knees.

"You are Jason Wilkins?" said Mr. Lincoln.

"Yes, Mr. President," replied the young surgeon.

"Where are you from?"

"High Hill, Ohio."

"Have you any relatives?"

"Only my mother is living."

"Yes, only a mother! Well, young man, how is your mother?"

Jason stammered. "Why, why--I don't know."

"You don't know!" thundered Lincoln. "And why don't you know? Is she
living or dead?"

"I don't know," said Jason. "To tell the truth, I've neglected to write
and I don't suppose she knows where I am."

There was a silence in the room. Mr. Lincoln clenched a great fist on
his desk, and his eyes scorched Jason. "I had a letter from her. She
supposes you dead and asked me to trace your grave. What was the matter
with her? No good? Like most mothers, a poor sort? Eh? Answer me, sir?"

Jason bristled a little. "The best woman that ever lived, Mr.
President."

"Ah!" breathed Mr. Lincoln. "Still you have no reason to be grateful to
her! How'd you get your training as a surgeon? Who paid for it? Your
father?"

Jason reddened. "Well, no; father was a poor Methodist preacher. Mother
raised the money, though I worked for my board mostly."

"Yes, how'd she raise the money?"

Jason's lips were stiff. "Selling things, Mr. President."

"What did she sell?"

"Father's watch--the old silver teapot--the mahogany hat-box--the St.
Bartholomew candlestick. Old things mostly; beyond use except in
museums."

Again silence in the room, while a look of contempt gathered in Abraham
Lincoln's eyes that seared Jason's cool young soul till it scorched him.
"You poor fool!" said Lincoln. "You poor worm! Her household
treasures--one by one--for you. 'Useless things--fit for museums!' Oh,
you fool!"

Jason flushed angrily and bit his lips. Suddenly the President rose and
pointed a long, bony finger at his desk. "Come here and sit down and
write a letter to your mother!"

Jason stalked obediently over and sat down in the President's seat.
Anger and mortification were ill inspirations for letter-writing, but
under Lincoln's burning eyes Jason seized a pen and wrote his mother a
stilted note. Lincoln paced the floor, pausing now and again to look
over Jason's shoulder.

"Address it and