When she got home there was a letter for her. It spoke of the devotion of her dead boys. It was almost as if the writer knew them—as she did. This letter was signed “A. Lincoln,” and read: “Dear Madam: “I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant-General of Pennsylvania that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.” “But they are dead!” cried Betsy to the letter. She cared nothing for the “cause” or for “freedom.” They were dead. VI GROWING OLD IS ONLY AN IDEA—UNTIL WE KNOW And then, when the war was quite over, that last pitiful prayer was answered, and John came marching home—from the grand review—with a captain’s straps on his shoulders—a minié ball in his thigh—and a perfectly proper sword—the gift of the United States of America! It is quite certain that John was very proud of the sword—and perhaps even of his limp. And Betsy was as proud as he—quite. But not of the sword and limp. These, in secret, she hated as much as she could hate. Perhaps I had better say that she was only glad. You may be sure that his glory did not keep her off. “I don’t care if you _were_ in twenty-one battles. You are only my dear old John.” “Only your old John,” said the soldier. “_Dear_, I said! And—and—you’ve got to make up for all the rest—one multiplied by five, you know—_that_ dear.” She suddenly sobbed. “Eh?” said John. Then—“Oh!” He sobbed, too. “And, as for that limp—I will cure that, or my name is not Betsy.” And more sobs. But for all her trying, he limped the more. So that long afterward she said: “John—I haven’t done it, and my name’s still Betsy.” But there was no more sobbing about it. “It’s better,” prevaricated John. “No,” said Betsy, “it ain’t. Something is gone. I can’t do things any more.” John thought a moment. “Like when you reach out in the dark for something you know is there and it ain’t and you shiver,” he said then. “I used to do that at night on the ground—reach out for—you!” “John!” cried Betsy, in her old manner, “I never heard you say so much at one time before—nor so nice. What’s the matter?” “_You_ don’t say so much,” said John. “_I’m_ evening up now.” “Yes—yes—yes—dear John!” said Betsy, with a tear, she did not know for what—quite. “I must talk more.”