“But they can’t do anything more than take him prisoner!” Dorothea exclaimed. She had no special interest in Lee Hendon save for April’s sake, but Tracy’s tone was suggestive of something serious.
“I wish I could be sure of that,” Tracy replied gravely. “You see, they are an irregular band of militia and will have small regard for the law in such cases. They will consider him not only a spy but a traitor.” He shook his head dubiously. “We mustn’t speak of this to April.”
“But we must do something,” Dorothea insisted.
“Yes, but I don’t know what has become of him,” Tracy explained. “He may be all right, after all, you know. At any rate I shall make it my business to find out. But, under any circumstances, April must not know.”
Secrecy, they agreed, was necessary, and that same evening Tracy went off again to try to find some trace of Hendon.
The next day the news reached little Washington that President Lincoln had been assassinated. There were few details and for some little time no one knew positively who the murderer was, and there were many fantastic rumors flying about.
Upon Dorothea the sad event made a deep impression, deeper than even she realized at the time. Once more she brought back to her mind the scene in which the great and kindly man had shown her his heart for a moment, and his death seemed a personal loss to her.
But out of the sadness came a crystallizing of all the vague feelings that had struggled for expression almost from the very day she had arrived in the South. She felt now that her real sympathy had always been for the North and that she was glad that they had won. Not that she lacked sympathy and understanding for her rebel relatives. She had no preconceived prejudices to warp her judgment, but great principles had been involved in this war that was now practically ended, and Dorothea knew that they had been upheld by the North under the leadership of Mr. Lincoln.
Indeed there was no rejoicing in the May household over the fact that the man who had beaten the Confederacy was dead. Mrs. May said openly and with truth that the South had lost her best friend. Even April expressed her indignation.
“We are not murderers!” she exclaimed, and Dorothea was glad that her cousins, with all their strong Southern loyalty, had no excuses for so cowardly a deed.