And then, suddenly, he became aware that some one was coming toward him down the walk. In the gray light of the morning, under the frost-bitten foliage, a man, tall, bent, with a high black hat on his head, and a gray plaid shawl thrown about his shoulders to protect him from the chill October air, came shuffling down the path. One glance at the uncouth figure, at the deep-lined, careworn face, into the sad and measureless depths of the never-to-be-forgotten eyes told Bannister that the man who approached him was Abraham Lincoln. CHAPTER IX WITH ABRAHAM LINCOLN So this was Lincoln--the man whom, lately, Rhett Bannister had hated above all other living men, at whose door he had laid all the woes and wounds and spilled blood of the nation. Awkward, indeed, he was, with gnarled features, ungainly limbs, and shambling gait. All this Bannister had expected to see. But where was the domineering air, the crafty expression, the pride of power, the ingrained coarseness, for which he had also looked? In that ungraceful form he could see now only the human frame bending under the weight of a mighty responsibility. In the furrowed face, drawn and ashy, and eloquent with suffering and care, in the deep-set, patient eyes, signals of a soul weighed down with sorrow, he could read now only the story of a life untouched by selfishness, of a heart breaking with the burdens and pierced with the griefs of a mighty and beloved nation. And with the vision of this man before him, so intensely human, so pleadingly simple, Rhett Bannister felt slipping away from him the old hate and scorn and enmity, and into their places came creeping pity for the man, reverence for his sorrow, sympathy with him in the awful burden he was bearing on his bent shoulders and in his mighty heart, the problems, griefs, and cares of his brothers, North and South, engaged in fratricidal strife. It was all in a moment. It followed one look into that infinitely sad and tender face, but in that moment the tide of feeling in Rhett Bannister’s mind and heart had turned. Abraham Lincoln was no longer the hated monster of other days, but a man, instead, of like passions, cares, griefs, and hopes with himself; a man to whom it was no humiliation to speak; nay, a man to whom he would dare to appeal in behalf of his son and himself, assured in advance of an honest and sympathetic hearing. And what was it that Captain Yohe had said? Bannister uncovered his head, and moved to the side of the path to let the Chief Magistrate by. And, even as he did so, there arose in his heart, and issued from his lips, an appeal which, one week before, he would have scorned to make. “Mr. President,” he said, “this meeting is by chance, but I beg that you will grant me one moment to hear my case.”