He took the dispatch from the courier's hand and held it open for some time, staring at it with fixed gaze. He searched the courier's face and asked pathetically: "Will you tell me, my friend, what is in it--I--I--cannot read--" The courier read the message in low tones. A great battle was joined. The fate of a nation hung on its issue. The stricken man drew from his pocket a tiny gold pencil and tried to write an answer--stopped suddenly and pressed his hand on his heart. Billy sprang to his side and seized the dispatch: "I'll take the message to General Cooper--Mr. President--" The white face turned to the young soldier and looked at him pitifully: "Thank you, my son--thank you--it is best--I must have this hour with our little boy--leave me with my dead!" Jennie stayed to help the stricken home. She took little Jeff in her arms to rock him to sleep. He drew her head down and whispered: "Miss Jennie, I got to Joe first after he fell. I knelt down beside him and said all the prayers I know--but God wouldn't wake him!" The girl drew the child close and kissed the reddened eyes. Over her head beat the steady tramp of the father's feet, back and forth, back and forth, a wounded lion in his cage. The windows and doors were still wide open, the curtains waving wan and ghost-like from their hangings. Two days later she followed the funeral procession to the cemetery--thousands of children, each child with a green bough or bunch of flowers to pile on the red mound. A beautiful girl pushed her way to Jennie's side and lifted a handful of snowdrops. "Please put these on little Joe," she said wistfully. "I knew him so well." With a sob the child turned and fled. Jennie never learned her name. She turned to the grave again, her gaze fixed on the striking figure of the grief-stricken father, bare-headed, straight as an arrow, his fine face silhouetted against the shining Southern sky. The mother stood back amid the shadows, in her somber wrappings, her tall figure drooped in pitiful grief. The leader turned quickly from his personal sorrows to those of his country, his indomitable courage rising to greater heights as dangers thickened. Two weeks later General Sheridan attempted what Dahlgren tried and failed to accomplish. The President hurried from his office to his home, seized his pistols, mounted his horse and rode out to join Generals Gracie and Ransom who were placing their skeleton brigades to repulse the attack. The crack of rifles could be distinctly heard from the Executive Mansion. The mother called her children to prayers. As little Jeff knelt he raised his chubby face and said with solemn earnestness: "You had better have my pony saddled, and let me go out and help father--we can pray afterwards!"