He took his hat off of the table and he started for the door. When he got to the threshold he turned around and he said: “A man who has never stumbled is to be envied, Mrs. Sessions. But a man who has stumbled and then fought his way back again, strong and firm, to his feet, is the sort whose hands _real_ men like to shake. Tell him that, too, ma’am, when you write. I guess he’ll know what I’m driving at.” Oh, _Jim_! The old B. & O. station at Washington was crowded with hurrying soldiers and civilians one early October afternoon in 1862. From an incoming train alighted three figures who caught the interested gaze of more than one passer-by. The trio were a tall man in late middle-age, whose face was still thin and white as from sharp illness; a small and red-headed boy whose alert eyes gloated on the noisy bustle and confusion around him, and a small yellow dog, whose nondescript coat had been painstakingly washed and combed for the occasion until it shone (and reeked with the scent of castile soap), and around whose short neck a wide red-white-and-blue ribbon was tied into a tremendous bow. As the three comrades won their way clear of the station crowds and to the street outside a man in uniform stepped up to them. “Major Brinton?” he asked cordially. “Yes, sir,” replied Dad, thrilling at sound of the old name. “I am President Lincoln’s military aid,” said the officer. “I was sent here to meet you and take you to the White House. There is the carriage at the curb. I am very glad indeed to see you, sir. Your services have been great. “By the way,” he added, glancing at Dad’s belt, “this is not to be a formal reception. It isn’t necessary to wear your sword, if it incommodes you at all.” “This sword, sir,” answered Dad, laying a reverent hand on its hilt, “was given me by a lady who’s waiting for me at the White House. I promised her I’d never draw it without cause, or sheathe it without honor. I’m going to wear it to the White House and tell her I’ve kept my promise.” “As you wish,” said the aid pleasantly. “The carriage is--” “Will you mind, sir,” interposed Dad, “if we march instead? Once I left the army--on foot. I would like to go on foot to a reward I don’t deserve. A silly fancy, maybe. But I’ve looked forward to it a long, long time. Especially since I was sick. March, Jimmie!” Word had passed around as to the trio’s identity. A little crowd had gathered. From the onlookers, as Dad and Battle Jimmie fell into step, went up a cheer. The two saluted, squared their shoulders, and set forth on their march of triumph, Emp trotting proudly ahead of them in all the glory of his patriotic ribbon and scoured coat. And so did Dad Brinton come to his own. THE END