She stopped suddenly.
"You have seen Stanton?" the President asked.
"Yes. He wouldn't listen. He swore I shouldn't have him."
The hazel-grey eyes gazed thoughtfully out the window across the shining river for a moment.
"I have two," he murmured, "and you have only one. It isn't fair. You shall have your boy."
He turned to his desk and wrote the order for his discharge. The mother pressed close, gently touched with the tips of her fingers his thick black hair and softly cried while he was writing.
She took the precious paper, tried to speak and choked.
"Go away now," the President whispered, "or you'll have me crying in a minute."
When the last man had gone he stood alone before his window in brooding silence. A tender smile overspread his face and he drew a deep breath. In the hills of Pennsylvania he saw a picture—a mother in the door of a humble home waiting for her boy. He is coming down the road with swift, strong step. She sees and rushes to meet him with a cry of joy, holds him in her arms without words a long, long while and will not let him go. And then she leads him into the house, falls on her knees and thanks God.
He smiles again and forgets the burden of the day.