The soldier drew a heavy envelop carefully from his breast pocket, and handed it to Jason. Jason opened it uneasily, and gasped. This is what he read: "Show this to Surgeon Jason Wilkins, ---- Regiment. Arrest him. Bring him to me immediately.--A. LINCOLN." Jason whitened. "What's up?" he asked the orderly. "I didn't ask the President," replied the orderly dryly. "We'll start at once, if you please, Doctor." In a daze, Jason left for Washington. He thought of all the minor offenses he had committed. But they were only such as any young fellow might have committed. He could not believe that any of them had reached Mr. Lincoln's ears, or that, if they had, the great man in the White House would have heeded them. Jason was locked in a room in a Washington boarding-house for one night. The next day at noon the orderly called for him. Weak-kneed, Jason followed him up the long drive to the door of the White House, and into a room where there were more orderlies and a man at a desk writing. An hour of dazed waiting, then a man came out of a door and spoke to the man at the desk. "Surgeon Jason Wilkins," said the sentry. "Here!" answered Jason. "This way," jerked the orderly, and Jason found himself in the inner room, with the door closed behind him. The room was empty, yet filled. There was but one man in it besides Jason, but that man was Mr. Lincoln. He sat at a desk, with his somber eyes on Jason's face--still a cool young face, despite trembling knees. "You are Jason Wilkins?" said Mr. Lincoln. "Yes, Mr. President," replied the young surgeon. "Where are you from?" "High Hill, Ohio." "Have you any relatives?" "Only my mother is living." "Yes, only a mother! Well, young man, how is your mother?" Jason stammered. "Why, why--I don't know." "You don't know!" thundered Lincoln. "And why don't you know? Is she living or dead?" "I don't know," said Jason. "To tell the truth, I've neglected to write and I don't suppose she knows where I am." There was a silence in the room. Mr. Lincoln clenched a great fist on his desk, and his eyes scorched Jason. "I had a letter from her. She supposes you dead and asked me to trace your grave. What was the matter with her? No good? Like most mothers, a poor sort? Eh? Answer me, sir?" Jason bristled a little. "The best woman that ever lived, Mr. President." "Ah!" breathed Mr. Lincoln. "Still you have no reason to be grateful to her! How'd you get your training as a surgeon? Who paid for it? Your father?" Jason reddened. "Well, no; father was a poor Methodist preacher. Mother raised the money, though I worked for my board mostly." "Yes, how'd she raise the money?" Jason's lips were stiff. "Selling things, Mr. President." "What did she sell?" "Father's watch--the old silver teapot--the mahogany hat-box--the St. Bartholomew candlestick. Old things mostly; beyond use except in museums."