The first told me, in hurried lines, of the illness of my husband’s mother; the second, posted a few hours later, announced her death. “I write beside mother’s dead body,” began my sister, Mrs. J. Withers Clay. “Her constant theme was brother Clement, and the last thing I remember hearing her say was ‘What of my son?’ in so distressed a tone that her heart appeared broken.... I trust you have seen your dear husband ere this. I hope he will be released before poor father leaves us. He is very distressed, very gentle and subdued in his trouble.... I can never forget mother’s heart-thrilling question ‘What of my son?’ She was very unhappy about your last letter—it was rather low-spirited—and said, ‘I have no hope; I shall never see my son!’” Within the next day I called upon Mr. Johnson. He received me with his usual urbane manner, quite in contrast with my own indignant mood. “Mr. Johnson,” I began, “Who _is_ the President of the United States?” He smiled rather satirically and shrugged his shoulders. “I am supposed to be!” he said. “But you are _not_!” I answered. “Your autographed letter was of little more use to me when I reached Fortress Monroe than blank paper would have been! For hours it was not honoured, during which time your Secretary of War held the wires and refused to allow me either to see my husband or to communicate with you!” Then, in as few words as possible, I related the circumstances of my visit to the Fort. Mr. Johnson, though constrained to preserve his official reserve, was unable to repress or disguise his anger at my recital. “When you go there again you’ll have no difficulty, I assure you!” he said. “When may I?” I asked eagerly. “When you wish,” he answered. I now pictured to him my husband’s position; I related the sad news I had just received, and which, under present conditions, I knew I dared not tell Mr. Clay. I implored the President, by every argument at my command, to exercise his Executive power and release Mr. Clay on his parole. Every moment of his incarceration under the discipline invented by the unscrupulous military authorities, I felt his life to be imperilled. As our interview proceeded, however, I perceived the old indecision of manner returning. The President’s replies were all to one effect; viz.: that the Secretary of War must decide upon the case. He freely made out another permit to the prison, this time to cover a longer stay, but about a parole for Mr. Clay, or the naming of a day for an early trial, he could promise nothing. He would consult his Cabinet; he would see Mr. Stanton. At last, my importunities for an authoritative action growing greater, the President burst out with every evidence of deep feeling: “Go home, woman, and write what you have to say, and I’ll read it to my Cabinet at the next meeting!” “You will not!” I answered hotly. “Why?” he asked, cynically.