"Nor can I, Mr. President, express the gratification I feel in meeting and shaking the hand of the chief magistrate of this great nation, especially when that magistrate is ruling the country a hundred and forty years after my birth." Cobb seemed proud of the fact that he, of all the world, could make such a statement. A few moments later, the President and Cobb were sitting before a glowing, cheerful fire, engaged in earnest conversation. Mr. Rawolle had been dismissed by the President, and had hastened to the welcome he knew awaited him from his wife and children. "There, Mr. President," said Cobb, after a long recital of his life and the facts attending his entombment on Mt. Olympus, "you have the whole story. It is a remarkable one, is it not?" "Stranger than any fiction I ever read," he exclaimed. "I can scarcely believe that I behold the intimate friend and contemporary of my great-grandfather in the person of one so young as you." He looked at Cobb in wonder and awe. "And are you the great-grandson of Hugh Craft, my dear old friend of 1887?" cried Cobb with joy, as if a new tie had been found to bind him to this new world. "Yes; here is our family history." He arose and went to the cabinet, and returned with a large book. "Read it;" opening it and handing it to the other; "you will there see the history of your friend." He placed his finger on the page. Cobb read slowly, and like one in a dream, this page of the history of the dead--this chronicle of the life of his chum and bosom friend. "First Lieutenant, Captain, Major," he read, "killed at the battle of Ottawa, August 5, 1917." He read it over twice; then suddenly turning to the President, he cried: "A soldier's death! A noble ending to a noble man! But what battle is this in which he died?"