In this hour of his sore trial he lacked the sense of broad humor which saved Abraham Lincoln. His rival in Washington was abused with far more savage cruelty--but it always reminded him of a funny story. He told the story, roared with laughter himself, and turned again to his work. Not so with Jefferson Davis. He was keenly and painfully sensitive to the approval or condemnation of the people about him. The thoughtless word of a child could cut him to the quick. To have explained many of the difficulties on which he was attacked would have been to endanger the usefulness of one of his generals or expose the army to danger. He steadfastly remained silent and accepted as inevitable the accusation that his manner was cold and repellent. But once did his soul completely break down under the strain. An officer whom he loved had been censured by one of his commanding generals who demanded his removal. This censure was conveyed to the President in a letter marked "Private." The officer was removed. Hard as the duty was, he felt that as the servant of his country he had no other choice. Flushed and indignant, his old friend called. "You know me, Mr. President," he cried passionately. "How can I ever hold my head up again under censure from you--one of my oldest and best friends?" The muscles of the drawn face twitched with nervous agony. He could not with his high sense of honor as President tell this man that he loved him and found no fault with him. To make his acceptance of the situation easier, his only course was to roust his friend's anger. He turned and said curtly: "You have, I believe, received your orders. I can suggest nothing but obedience." Too angry to ask an explanation, he strode from the room without a word. The President closed his desk, climbed the steep hill of the Capitol Square, walked home in brooding silence, and locked himself in his room without eating his dinner. Alarmed at his absence, Mrs. Davis at last gently rapped on his door. With tender tact she drew from his reluctant lips the story. Turning his dimmed eyes on hers, he burst out in tones of quivering anguish: "Oh, my Winnie dear, how could any man with a soul write a letter like that, mark it private and force me to plunge a knife into the heart of my best friend and leave it there without a word--" "You should have told your friend the whole truth!" "No--he could have made trouble in the army. His commander knew that I could bear it best." "You must try to mingle more with those men, dear," his wife pleaded. "Use your brains and personality to win them. You can do it." "At the cost of precious hours I can give to better service for my country. No. I've given my life to the South. I'll eat my heart out in silence if I must--" He paused and looked at her tenderly.