Then, glancing at the wall where Bob’s frayed and dusty coat hung at the head of his cot, with the shoulder-straps of a first lieutenant half showing, he said, inquiringly:-- “That coat’s not yours?” “It is mine, Mr. President.” Lincoln looked down again at the boyish face beneath him. “It’s hard to believe,” he said. And then the adjutant across the aisle spoke up for the second time. “It’s quite true, Mr. President. And he has splendidly earned every step of his promotion.” Still holding the boy’s hands and looking down into his face, the President said:-- “I thank you, my son. In the name of the country for which you have fought and suffered, I thank you.” After a moment he added:-- “And, let me see, there was a mother back there in Pennsylvania, wasn’t there? How’s the mother?” “Very well, Mr. Lincoln, and waiting patiently for us.” “Well, you’re going home to her very soon now. The mothers are going to have their reward. The war is almost over now, my boy--it’s almost over, Bannister. Peace is coming, next week maybe, next month for sure. And the peace that’s coming was well worth fighting for. I tell you the mothers have not agonized in vain, the dead have not died for naught.” There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. He never could quite get over his pity for the mothers whose boys had died in the conflict, nor his sorrow over the unnumbered lives lost in the maelstrom of war. These things lay, always, a mighty burden on his heart. He lived with them by day and he dreamed of them at night. But now that there were to be no more battles, no more agonies, no more dead faces turned upward to the sky, a thankfulness such as no other life has ever known filled his soul and suffused his countenance. Rhett Bannister, who had seen him in the dark days of ’63, and who had ever since been haunted by the inexpressible sadness of his face, noted at once how that face had been transfigured. Not that it bore evidence now of pride or exultation, or a selfish joy in victories achieved, but rather that it shone with a great gladness because the sufferings and the hardships and the heart-agonies of a whole nation were so near their end. After a little he loosed one of Bob’s hands and took one of Bannister’s. “Good-by, boys!” he said, “and health to you, and a happy home-going. Some day you’ll come to Washington. Come in and see me. I’ll be waiting for you. Good-by!” He passed down the aisle, tall, loose-jointed, with ill-fitting clothes and awkward mien; but to those two wounded soldiers on their cots it seemed that a more beautiful presence than his had never passed their way.