You who know the tenderness
  Of old men at eve-tide,
Coming from the hedgerows,
  Coming from the plough,
And the wandering caress
  Of winds upon the woodside,
When the crying yaffle goes
  Underneath the bough;

First Chronicler:  You who mark the flowing
  Of sap upon the May-time,
And the waters welling
  From the watershed,
You who count the growing
  Of harvest and hay-time,
Knowing these the telling
  Of your daily bread;

Second Chronicler:  You who cherish courtesy
  With your fellows at your gate,
And about your hearthstone sit
  Under love’s decrees,
You who know that death will be
Speaking with you soon or late.

The two together:  Kinsmen, what is
mother-wit
But the light of these? 
Knowing these, what is there more
For learning in your little years? 
Are not these all gospels bright
Shining on your day? 
How then shall your hearts be sore
With envy and her brood of fears,
How forget the words of light
From the mountain-way? ...

Blessed are the merciful.... 
Does not every threshold seek
Meadows and the flight of birds
For compassion still? 
Blessed are the merciful.... 
Are we pilgrims yet to speak
Out of Olivet the words
Of knowledge and good-will?

First Chronicler:  Two years of darkness, and this man but grows
Greater in resolution, more constant in compassion. 
He goes
The way of dominion in pitiful, high-hearted fashion.

SCENE III.

Nearly two years later.

A small reception room at the White House.  MRS. LINCOLN, dressed in a fashion perhaps a little too considered, despairing as she now does of any sartorial grace in her husband, and acutely conscious that she must meet this necessity of office alone, is writing.  She rings the bell, and SUSAN, who has taken her promotion more philosophically, comes in.

Mrs. Lincoln_:  Admit any one who calls, Susan.  And enquire whether the
President will be in to tea.

Susan:  Mr. Lincoln has just sent word that he will be in.

Mrs. Lincoln:  Very well.

SUSAN is going.

Susan. Susan:  Yes, ma’am.

Mrs. Lincoln:  You still say Mr. Lincoln.  You should say the President.

Susan:  Yes, ma’am.  But you see, ma’am, it’s difficult after calling him Mr. Lincoln for fifteen years.

Mrs. Lincoln:  But you must remember.  Everybody calls him the President now.

Susan:  No, ma’am.  There’s a good many people call him Father Abraham now.  And there’s some that like him even better than that.  Only to-day Mr. Coldpenny, at the stores, said, “Well, Susan, and how’s old Abe this morning?”

Mrs. Lincoln:  I hope you don’t encourage them.