Had another woman in the land—now, more than ever and forever, “God’s Country”—such cause as I to return thanks for what had been in the last month?
The glow of exultation still warmed my inmost being, when I halted on the upper stair on my way down to breakfast. Hearing a ring at the door-bell, with the thought of a telegram, as probable explanation of the untimely call, I leaned breathlessly over the balustrade as the maid opened the door.
It was a parishioner, and a neighbor. He spoke hurriedly:
“Will you say to Mrs. Terhune that the President was assassinated in Ford’s Theatre in Washington last night?”
When, hours and hours afterward, I looked, with eyes dimmed by weeping, upon “Old Glory,” it hung limp at half-mast, and the background was dull with rain-clouds.
I had many visitors that day. My nearest neighbor, and, to this hour, one of my closest friends, ran in to “see how I was bearing it. I must not get overexcited!” Then she broke down, and wept stormily, as for a murdered father.
“We never knew how we loved him until now!” she sobbed.
That was the cry of every torn heart. At last, we knew the patient, tender-hearted, magnificent patriot-hero for what he was—the second Father of his Country. At least a dozen men dropped in to “talk over” the bereavement. One, as rugged of feature and as soft of heart as our martyred head, said, huskily, holding my hand in our “good-bye”:
“Somehow, it does me good to hear you talk, in your Southern accent, of our common grief. I can’t exactly express what it means to me. Words come hard to-day. But it may be a sign that this awful sorrow may, in God’s hands, be the means of bringing us brothers together again. He always felt kindly toward them. Some day, they may be brought to see that they have lost their best friend. God knows!”
I thank Him that, in the fulness of time, the old man’s hope has been fulfilled.