just went away and kept a kind of thinkin' about it."

"Well, what conclusion did you come to?" He spoke wearily.

"Oh, I just wondered if you'd like to change with me--guess you wouldn't
for all the pain?"

Surprised at the man's reflection, John looked up at the black kindly
face. "Get me some coffee."

"Yes, sir--what's that?" The morning gun rang out the sunrise hour.
"What's that, sir?" The flag was being hoisted on the slope below them.
"It's stopped at half-mast, sir! Who's dead now?"

"Go and ask, Josiah." McGregor came up as he spoke.

"The President was killed last night, John, by an assassin!"

"Lincoln killed!"

"Yes--I will tell you by and by--now this is all we know. I must make my
rounds. We leave to-morrow for home."

John sat alone. This measureless calamity had at once on the
thoughtful young soldier the effect of lessening the influences of
his over-sensitive surrender to pain and its attendant power to weaken
self-control. Like others, in the turmoil of war he had given too little
thought to the Promethean torment of a great soul chained to the rock of
duty--the man to whom like the Christ "the common people listened
gladly." He looked back over his own physical suffering with sense of
shame at his defeat, and sat up in his chair as if with a call on his
worn frame to assert the power of a soul to hear and answer the summons
of a great example.

"Thank you, Josiah," he said cheerfully. "No coffee is like yours to set
a fellow up." A greater tonic was acting. "We go home to-morrow."

"That's good. Listen, sir--what's that?"

"Minute guns, Josiah. Have you heard the news?"

"Yes, sir--it's awful; but we are going home to Westways."

CHAPTER XXX

As the trains went northward crowded with more or less damaged officers
and men, John Penhallow in his faded engineer uniform showed signs of
renewed vitality. He chatted in his old companionable way with the other
home-bound volunteers, and as they went through Baltimore related to
McGregor with some merriment his bloodless duel with Mrs. Penhallow's
Rebel brother Henry. The doctor watched him with the most friendly
satisfaction and with such pride as a florist may have in his prospering
flowers. The colour of health was returning to the pale face and there
was evidently relief from excessive pain. He heard, too, as they chatted,
of John's regrets that his simple engineer dress was not as neat as he
would have desired and of whether