The President had risen at daylight on the fateful Sunday morning. He was sorry this first action must be fought on Sunday. It seemed a bad omen. The preachers from his home town of Springfield, Illinois, had issued a manifesto against his election without regard to their party affiliations on account of his supposed hostility to religion. It had hurt and stung his pride more than any single incident in the campaign. His nature was profoundly religious. He was not a church member because his religion had the unique quality of a personal faith which refused from sheer honesty to square itself with the dogmas of any sect. The preachers had not treated him fairly, but he cherished no ill will. He knew their sterling worth to the Republic and he meant to use them in the tremendous task before him. He had hoped the battle would not be joined until Monday. But he knew at dawn that a clash was inevitable.

At half past ten o\'clock, though keenly anxious for the first news from the front, he was ready to accompany Mrs. Lincoln to church. The breeze was from the South—a hot, lazy, midsummer heavy air.

The Commander-in-Chief bent his giant figure over a war map, spread on his desk, fixed the position of each army by colored pins, studied them a moment and quietly walked with his wife to the Presbyterian Church to hear Dr. Gurley preach. He sat in reverent silence through the service, his soul hovering over the distant hills.

Before midnight the panic stricken Congressmen began to drop into the White House, each with his story of unparalleled disaster. At one o\'clock the President stood in the midst of a group of excited, perspiring statesmen who had crowded into the executive office, the one cool, shrewd, patient, self-possessed courageous man among them. He reviewed their stories quietly and with no sign of excitement, to say nothing of panic.

They marvelled at his dull intellect.

He was listening in silence, shaping the big new policy of his administration.

He spent the entire night calmly listening to all these stories, speaking a word of good cheer where it would be of service.

Mr. Seward entered as he had just finished a light breakfast.

The Secretary\'s hair was disheveled, his black string tie under his ear, and he was taking two pinches of snuff within the time he usually took one.

In thirty minutes the outlines of his message to Congress and his new proclamation were determined. Mr. Seward left with new courage and a growing sense of reliance on the wisdom, courage and intellectual power of the Chief he had thought to supplant without a struggle.

At eight o\'clock the man with a grievance made his first appearance. His wrath was past the boiling point, in spite of the fact that his handsome uniform was still wet from the night\'s wild ride.

He went straight to the point. He was a volunteer patriot of high standing in his community. As a citizen of the Republic, wearing its uniform, he represented its dignity and power. He had been grossly insulted by a military martinet from West Point and he proposed to test the question whether an American citizen had any rights such men must respect.

The President lifted his calm, deep eyes to the flushed angry face, glanced at the gold marks of his rank, and said:

"What can I do for you, Captain?"

"I\'ve come to ask you, Mr. President," he began with subdued intensity, "whether a volunteer officer of this country, a man of culture and position, is to be treated as a dog or a human being?"

The quiet man at the desk slipped his glasses from his ears, polished them with his handkerchief, readjusted them, and looked up again with kindly interest:

"What\'s the trouble?"

"A discussion arose in our regiment on the day we were ordered into battle over the expiration of our enlistment. I held, as a lawyer, sir, that every day of rotten manual labor we had faithfully performed for our country should be counted in our three months military service. Our time had expired and I demanded that we be discharged then and there——"

"On the eve of a battle?"

"Certainly, sir—what had that to do with our rights? We could have re?nlisted on the spot. I refused to take orders from the upstart who commanded our brigade."

"And what happened?" the calm voice asked.

"He dared to threaten my life, sir!"

"Who was he?"

"A Colonel in command of our brigade—named Sherman!"

"William Tecumseh Sherma............