"After that," admitted Mrs. Rosenfelt, wiping her eyes as she heard the story from a Chicago friend of the Jonas family, "after that, I'll forgive the president everything!" She never explained just why she should feel called upon to forgive President Lincoln for anything, but up to that time the good lady had entertained the notion that the president had made the war and was entirely responsible for her son's enlistment. "Things like that make you feel that there's good in everybody's heart even in war time. Anyhow, the war can't last much longer."
The great war did end that very year and in the spring of 1865 Morris realized that at last he might send Mr. Lincoln his present. "Just for a sort of extra celebration," he told himself, as he counted the money he had so painfully hoarded in an old wallet during the four years of waiting.
It was not a large sum after all, for Mr. Rosenfelt was not a rich man and his business interests had suffered during the war. And, it must be confessed, several times Morris had yielded to temptation and had broken into his little treasury to buy some toy or pleasure that he felt he just must have, intending to pay himself back as soon as he could earn the money. But chores were few and brought little, and even his uncle's barmitzvah present of five dollars failed to raise the sum above fifteen. Still that was a good deal, thought Morris, although he couldn't buy a gold watch with it. But he had grown up a little during the past four years and realized that probably Mr. Lincoln had a gold watch, anyhow. And so, much as he hated to do it, for he wanted the secret to be all his own, he decided to ask his father's advice and waited impatiently for him to come in from the porch, where he stood talking with a neighbor, and have breakfast the Saturday morning after peace was declared.
Although he was only a boy of thirteen at the time, Morris never forgot how the parlor looked that day with the flag draped over Harry's picture taken in uniform, the pale sunshine of early spring streaming upon the bright red geranium plant on the marble-topped table. There was a large tidy on the table, a doily his mother had crotched, his mother who started up with a cry of alarm as Mr. Rosenfelt entered, his face white with terror.
"Harry——" was all she could say for a moment. Then, when she could control her voice a little: "Has anything happened to our Harry?"
Her husband shook his head. "No," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone that contrasted strangely with his dreadful pallor. "Harry, thank God, is safe and will soon be on his way home. But President Lincoln——"
"Yes?" cried Mrs. Rosenfelt, "the president?"
"He was shot last evening by an assassin. He has just died," answered her husband, and he spoke as one speaks of a dear friend.
"It can't be true," cried Morris, hotly. "No one would hurt him—he was so good—we all loved him so." The tears ran down his face as he spoke and for once he was not ashamed to have his father see him cry. Without another word he turned and ran upstairs to his own room. The little blue bank still standing upon the dresser hurt him with a sudden memory. He was comparatively rich now, but he hated the fifteen dollars he had saved with so much eagerness through the years of patient waiting.
The money, still unspent, lay in Morris's wallet the day Mr. Lincoln came home to Springfield. The humble rail splitter had returned to his home town in kingly triumph. As his funeral train crossed the continent, every great city, every tiny village, crape-hung and grief-stricken, had sent its citizens to do him homage. Even the farmers from the scattered farms along the way lit funeral pyres as the dark procession thundered past through the night. Now the citizens of Chicago stood bowed in grief as the body of the martyred president was borne through the silent streets. Strong men wept openly and unashamed; but Morris, standing at his father's side on the curbing, did not cry. Somehow, it all seemed too terrible for tears. And, because he was just a small boy, after all not the least of his grief was the thought that now it was too late to send Mr. Lincoln his present.