"Sister Olive," said the old man, "he loved others better than himself; and it is not this tomb, but the great heart of the world, that has taken him in. I felt that he was called. I felt it years ago."
"Heaven forgive a poor old woman, elder! I misjudged that man. See here."
She held up a bunch of half-withered prairie violets that she had carried about with her all the day, and then went and laid them on the tomb.
"For Lincoln's sake! for Lincoln's sake!" she said, crying like a child.
The two went away in the shadows, talking of all the past, and each has long slept under the violets of the prairies.