“No, he didn’t.” Mary got her control back with a gusty breath. “He wouldn’t even take time to drink his milk. He took it with him and likely he’s upset the glass all over the carpet by this time.” “Well, let’s go and see what he found under the Christmas tree.” Robert followed them, silently, up the stairs to the sitting room, strewn now with paper wrappings and a confusion of toys. Tad was standing in the middle of the floor buckling on a wide military belt trimmed with metal. Hanging from it was a small sword. Tad worked awkwardly because his hands were lost in great white gauntlet gloves that reached almost to his elbows. “From Mr. Stanton,” he grinned, patting the belt. “I thought he didn’t like me. I thought he didn’t like boys.” “He likes being Secretary of War,” said Robert dryly. He reached for a small package. “This is for you, Mama. The man said these things were real jade from China.” Mary took the parcel eagerly, kissed Robert, undid the wrapping, exclaimed over the necklace, pin, and earbobs. “Oh, Bob, they’re so pretty! I can wear them with my green taffeta.” She was a child for trinkets, Lincoln was thinking indulgently. He was glad that he had given her the big white muff. She would love carrying it to parties and on their carriage drives, nestling her two little round chins into the delicate fur. He thanked Robert for a pair of gold cuff links and there was laughter when they discovered that his gift to Robert had been an almost identical pair. “At least,” said Robert, “I shall have the distinction of imitating the President of the United States.” “Well, they’ll fasten your shirt sleeves anyway,” drawled Lincoln. “That’s all a man can ask of them.” Tad strutted around the room flourishing his sword. He gulped the last of his milk hastily at his mother’s command, put on his uniform cap, and swished a shine on the toes of his boots with his cuff. “Now I have to show these to the boys,” he announced. “But son,” protested his mother, “aren’t you going to play with all your pretty toys? Look—this little cannon. It shoots!” “Yeh—shoots a cork!” Tad dismissed the weapon indifferently, “A ole Rebel would sure laugh if you shot him with that. Papa, I want a real gun. One with bullets in it.” “My Heaven, Tad, you’re too little to have a gun,” declared Mary. “If I had a gun I could ride with Papa and perteck him,” argued Tad. “Then nobody would dare shoot holes in his hat.” Lincoln caught the startled look on Mary’s face, got his son hastily by the elbow. “Come along, Tad. Go show off your finery. And I’ve got work to do.” He hustled the boy down the hall. “Who told you somebody shot a hole in my hat?” he demanded, when they were out of earshot. Tad grinned. “Oh, I get information,” he said blandly, “but if I had been along with a good ole gun nobody would have dared do it.” “Don’t mention it again in front of your mother, you hear?” Lincoln seldom spoke sharply to the boy and Tad looked scared briefly.