Silence fell between them. Griffith's hand reached out toward the paper Mr. Lincoln had let fall, but the long angular arm reached it first, and as if not noticing the movement of Mr. Davenport, he deftly slid it toward the pile of other papers, and then suddenly flung all into a confused heap as he searched for some article on the table.
"Would you like to go home that way?" They were both thinking of Shiloh, so why mention the name? "Perhaps if you did, you might find--you might take him home with you if---- Have you wired his mother that _you_ are safe, and here on your way home? That was right. That will help her to bear----"
He arose restlessly and placed both hands upon Griffith's shoulders. "Mr. Davenport, I can't thank you enough for your services. I want you to understand that I _know_ what it all meant to you, and that I appreciate it at its full value. I hope the time will come when you will let a grateful country know what you have done and--and----" He held out his hand for the message as the door had opened for the secretary. He read and turned the other side up, and then re-read it. "Who is Beverly? Colonel, of--Oh, your son? Oh, this is for you! I did not notice the address. I wondered who loved me!" Mr. Lincoln smiled as he handed the message to his guest. "Roy is wounded, but doing well. Have sent him to Nashville to the Wests. I am unhurt. I love you. Beverly," Griffith read. Then he took out his handkerchief and blew a great blast.
"Was there ever such a boy? To telegraph _that!_" He smiled up at Mr. Lincoln through proud dim eyes. "That is my oldest son--the Captain." The quaver in his voice and the smile in his eyes, drowned as it was in moisture, touched the great man before him, who took the message again and re-read it as Griffith talked.
"He loves you he says, and the other one is doing well. _You_ ought to be satisfied. A good many fathers are not fixed just that way, to-day!" Mr. Lincoln shook his head sadly from side to side, and the tragic face sank into its depth of gloom again. "Too many fathers have no sons to love them today--too many, too many," he said gloomily. "When will it all end? _How_ will it all end?" He held out the message as he suddenly turned to the table. "You will want to keep that. Do you want to go by way of Nashville, now? Or straight home?"