It was a letter, and written in a peculiarly long, angular hand. At the bottom was the unforgettable signature, “A. Lincoln.”
Dorothy gasped, looked back at the old man with shining eyes, and then devoured the letter:
“Executive Mansion,
“Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.“To Mrs. Bixby,
“Boston, Mass.
“Dear Madam: I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.
“I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which would attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that Our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
“Yours very sincerely and respectfully,
“A. Lincoln.”
“Oh, Mr. Dempsey! is it real?” cried Dorothy.
“It is that, Ma’am,” he said, confidently. “He that was President—and the finest gentleman that ever lived—wrote that letter to a poor widow. How it come in Colonel Hardin’s papers, I dunno——”
“And the lawyers threw it aside. How awful! They were looking only for stocks, and bonds, and wills, and such,” cried Dorothy, eagerly. “Yet that letter from President Lincoln, Mr. Dempsey, must be worth a lot of money, too. And you found it, Mr. Dempsey! It’s yours.”
“Oh, no, Ma’am. Your aunt——”
“Would never lay claim to it, I am sure. And if the letter is worth money——”
“What’s this that’s worth money, Miss?” asked a suave voice behind her. Dorothy Dale turned to see the smiling Mr. Philo Marsh in dusty riding clothes standing, hat in hand, behind her.
“Good morning, Miss!” he said, with a sweeping bow. “I chanced to overhear you. What’s the old fellow found?” and he stretched forth a bold hand and took the letter.