Think of that, Jim! Just _think_ of it. I made up my mind, that minute, I’d go to the hospital ear specialist right off and get him to find out why I’d taken to hearing things that couldn’t possibly have been said to me. But Mr. Lincoln went on, more serious: “Mrs. Sessions, I know Major Dadd’s story. All of it. He’s the kind of man I think I’d like to be friends with. Do you think he’d feel like meeting me?” “Oh, Mr. President!” I sputtered. I couldn’t say another word. “Because,” he goes on, his mouth-corners twisting up in a smile. “I’d like to have him come to see me. We owe him a good deal. And I want we should pay some of that debt. If he hangs back, and doesn’t think it’s worth while to come, just you tell him I’ve a couple of little presents for him. “One is from Congress. One is from me.” Yes, I was sure I’d have to go to that ear specialist, Jim! “The present from Congress, ma’am,” says Mr. Lincoln, “is a gold Distinguished Service Medal. It was voted him yesterday for his share in the Antietam campaign. But it wasn’t voted to James Dadd. I’ve put an end to ‘James Dadd’s’ existence with six strokes of the pen.” “I--I don’t understand, Mr. President,” I blurted out; and neither I did. “James Dadd,” he says, with another of those smiles that makes a body’s heart go all warm, “James Dadd was a mistake. I’ve rectified it. He is James Brinton, henceforward and always. Tell him never to forget that. For it’s the way his name has been altered on the army lists.” He kind of paused for a second, then he said: “And, Mrs. Sessions, James Brinton is the name on a document I signed last night. I’ve about decided that Brinton isn’t really worthy to be a brevet-major any more after the way he behaved in the Antietam campaign. So, to punish him, I’ve just signed a commission making him a brigadier-general instead.” I don’t know, Jim, if it was then, or a while earlier, that I began crying. I guess it was then. I sat sopping my eyes and trying to say grand, eloquent things. But I could hear myself just saying: “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” all kind of sobby, over and over again, like a numb wit. But he seemed to understand. I guess he always understands. That’s what makes him different. He got up and took my hand again, and he said: “Tell him next time you write. And tell him, if he’s well enough, I want him to come to the White House next Tuesday afternoon. I want you to come, too, ma’am. And--don’t forget to tell him to bring Battle Jimmie along. I want to thank him, too. “And he and my boy, Tad, can get into mischief together while we old folks are gabbling.”