In April came the glad news of Lee’s surrender, which virtually ended the war. It was glorious news to her and those she was with, as well as to all other loyal Americans, filling their hearts with joy and gratitude to the Giver of all good; but alas! how quickly followed by intense grief and indignation over the cruel and cowardly assassination of him who had guided the ship of state through the breakers and the fearful storm that had raged about her, threatening her destruction for the last four years.
On Saturday morning, April 15, the news reached Philadelphia, telegraphed from Washington, that President Lincoln had been shot the previous night and had just died of his wound.
The early breakfast was over at Mrs. Baker’s, the store was in order, and Ethel sitting behind the counter engaged upon a bit of needlework while awaiting the coming of customers. Mrs. Ray was busy in the back part of the house, little Jenny playing about on the pavement in front of the door, and Mrs. Baker had gone to market, taking the two boys with her.
As Ethel’s needle flew in and out, her thoughts were busy with the glad news of a few days before—that Lee had surrendered to Grant.
“The war must be just about over,” she said to herself, “and how glad dear, good President Lincoln and all the people that love the Union must feel! I don’t think one wants to punish the rebels now, much as we have lost and suffered through the efforts of the Confederates to destroy it—the grand old Union—we just say ‘They’ve given up now, and we will do all we can to help them to repair their losses and begin to prosper again.’ But, oh, hark! what’s that the newsboys are crying?”
With the last words she dropped her work and ran to the door.
The newsboy, drawing nearer, was literally crying, sobs mingling with the words, “President Lincoln shot——”
“Oh, what—what’s that he’s saying?” cried Mrs. Ray, rushing in from the back room and through the front door. “Here, boy, bring me a paper! Oh, it can’t be possible that anybody’d be so wicked as to fire at the President! Was he much hurt?” as she took the paper from the hand of the weeping boy and gave him the money for it.
“Oh, ma’am, he’s dead! he’s dead! He was shot last night and died just a few minutes ago. And they’ve murdered two or three more o’ the big men in Washington,” and with the last words, accompanied by a sob, the lad passed on, repeating his mournful cry.
“Oh, I can’t believe it! I don’t know how to believe anybody, even a reb, could be so wicked,” sobbed Mrs. Ray, hastily glancing over the headings. “Yes, yes: here it is! but I can’t believe it; it’s surely a hoax; for who could be so wicked as to murder such a good, kind man as dear Mr. Lincoln?”