“That’s right, that’s right; go on, I believe in the final perseverance of the saints.” I have never forgotten these words, perhaps it is because they were the last I ever heard him utter. I returned in the morning, full of hope, thinking of the pleasant face I had left the evening before, but no smile greeted me. The President was evidently annoyed by something, and waited for me to speak, which I did not do. I afterward learned his annoyance was caused by a woman pleading for the life of a son who was sentenced to be shot for desertion under very aggravating circumstances. After a moment he said, “Well,” with a peculiar contortion of face I never saw in anybody else. I replied, “Well,” and he looked at me a little astonished, I fancied, and said, “Have you nothing to say?” “Nothing, Mr. President, until I hear your decision. You bade me come this morning; have you decided?” “No, but I believe this idea of northern hospitals is a great humbug, and I am tired of hearing about it.” He spoke impatiently. I replied, “I regret to add a feather’s weight to your already overwhelming care and responsibility. I would rather have stayed at home.” With a kind of half smile, he said, “I wish you had.” I answered him as though he had not smiled. “Nothing would have given me greater pleasure; but a keen sense of duty to this government, justice and mercy to its most loyal supporters, and regard for your honor and position made me come. The people cannot understand why their friends are left to die when with proper care they might live and do good service for their country. Mr. Lincoln, I believe you will be grateful for my coming.” He looked at me intently; I could not tell if he were annoyed or not, and as he did not speak, I continued: “I do not come to plead for the lives of criminals, not for the lives of deserters, not for those who have been in the least disloyal. I come to plead for the lives of those who were the first to hasten to the support of this government, who helped to place you where you are, because they trusted you. Men who have done all they could, and now when flesh, and nerve, and muscle are gone, still pray for your life and the life of this republic. They scarcely ask for that for which I plead--they expect to sacrifice their lives for their country. Many on their cots, faint, sick, and dying, say, ‘We would gladly do more, but I suppose that is all right.’ I know that a majority of them would live and be strong men again if they could be sent north. I say I know, because when I was sick among them last spring, surrounded by every comfort, with the best of care, and determined to get well, I grew weaker day by day, until, not being under military law, my friends brought me north. I recovered entirely, simply by breathing northern air.”