“Forevermore!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? I looked for you to help me with the Christmas things and couldn’t find a hair of you or Tad either. Has that child been out in this cold wind?” “We were having a little Christmas party with some of the boys, Mary. Tad’s all right. Don’t start scolding tonight; it’s already Christmas morning now.” “You know how delicate he is. It will be just like Willie all over again and I can’t bear any more sorrow, Abraham. I’ll lose my mind if I have another grief to live through,” she cried. “Tad’s tough, Mama. Not frail like Willie. We were in the kitchen anyway,” he evaded. “It was warm down there.” “You didn’t eat up my cakes?” she demanded. “I had trouble enough getting them baked. The cook says the blockade is to blame for making sugar so scarce and high. They ought to know we have to have sugar. There’s no coconut either, nor nutmegs nor cinnamon.” “It’s war, Mary. Some good people haven’t even got bread,” he reminded her. She began to whimper, perching on the edge of the bed. “Maybe I won’t need any cakes for my party. I’ve had at least a dozen regrets already. An invitation from the wife of the President should be like a command from the queen,” she declared, grimly. “I’m saving all those insulting notes and I think the people who wrote them should be properly dealt with.” Lincoln sighed as he hung up his coat and untied his lumpy satin cravat. The starched collar rasped his neck. He was glad to be rid of it. “Don’t you cry now for Christmas, Mary,” he pleaded. “We have to keep things happy for the boys. Bob will be here in the morning.” She dried her eyes on the ruffle of her sleeve. “I can’t help remembering that I’ve lost my son.” “You’re one of a vast company, Mary. If all the tears that will be shed by bereaved mothers tomorrow were drained into one river we could float a gunboat on it. If only I could see a way so there would be no more—no more killing, no more graves, no more sorrowing women!” he cried, desolately. It was a cry of anguish and Mary Lincoln felt a surge of terrible compassion for this gaunt, lonely man who was her love. She put her arms around him, standing on tiptoe, her cheek pressing the buttons of his shirt. “You didn’t make this war. You’re doing all any man could do to end it!” she cried. “We could have ignored the country—we could have stayed in Springfield where nobody hated us. Here they all hate us. The ones who come to our party tomorrow will smirk and fawn to our faces and then sneer at our backs.” “Not all, Mary. There are plenty of good folks, loyal folks, who believe I’m doing right. Plenty of people we can call our friends. A sight of them voted for me, remember.” “They want something!” she argued. “Every last one of them wants something. That General Grant is even being puffed up to run against you for president next year. Even the Illinois newspapers are for him.”