TO FORGIVE

(Part II)

After the death of his dog, Dan runs away from home, and while sleeping on the road has a chance encounter with Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States.

Dan sat up and rubbed his eyes, "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I appear to be waking you and doing a poor job of it," said Lincoln.

"You did’nt come to take me then," exclaimed Dan greatly relieved." I wouldn’t a gone!" he added defiantly.

Lincoln looked at him sharply, his interest aroused by the trace of tears in the boy’s eyes and the bravado in his voice. "There’s a misunderstanding here," he said, "almost as bad as the misunderstanding that Mamie and her mother had over Mr. Riggs. Mr Riggs was the undertaker back home." the gaunt man chuckled. "Ever hear that story, Sonny? Well it was this way," and sitting himself on a tree, Lincoln told the story.

Laughing impetuously, Danny wondered how such a

homely man could be so likable.

For an instant Danny forgot that Jack was dead, and incoln forgot his troubles in the White House. The boy chuckled again. "I’ll have to tell that to Fa—" Remembering with a pang that he would never see his father again, he couldn’t finish the word.

Lincoln caught the quick change in his face and wondered. He knew better than to ask questions, so he said, " Our sitting here when we ought to be going home reminds me of another story."

"Tell me," said Dan, well won already to this gaunt man, despite his somber eyes and the sadness than colored them. Dan did not know hat this man sitting on a tree trunk chatting affably with him was the President of the United States. He had not seen the cartoons that flooded other sections of the country, and he had not gone to Presidential inauguration. The very idea that the President of the United States should be sitting with him in the woods was preposterous. It did not cross his mind.

When Danny had laughed heartily at the second story, Lincoln said, "Well, Sonny, I reckon we have to be moving, don’t you." He helped the lad with his bundle.

"Are you going to war, too?" asked Dan, "I am."

"You!" exclaimed Lincoln, "You are no bigger than my own Tadpole, and he is still a wriggler. Does your father know?"

"I reckon he does by now," said the boy darkly. "Father is an early riser. You see he killed my dog yesterday without my knowing’, and so I left without his knowing’."

The hardness of the boy’s voice startled Lincoln, who said, "What is your Father’s name, Sonny?"

"William Ripley, that is William Ripley Senior." Will, that’s Junior, is my brother, is off at the war. I’m Dan. I’m going to find my brother. I don’t care if I ever come back. I loved Jack better than—than—"His voice choked.

Lincoln put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He was getting the situation. "Jack was your dog?" asked the big man gently.

"Yeh, and father shouldn’t a killed him unbeknownst to me. I’ll never forgive him that. Never!"

"Quite right, said the wise man, walking with him. Don’t you ever forgive him, Dan. And don’t ever forget it, except under one certain condition."

"What’s that?" said the boy a trifle puzzled at the unexpected compliance of his elder on his unforgiving mood.

"Why, that you never forget all the kind and loving things that your father has done for you. Why did he kill the dog, Dan?"

"Well—he—killed some—sheep," said the boy. He could be honest with this tall, gentle and grave person who understood so readily.

"How old are you, Dan?"

"Fourteen going on fifteen."

"That quite a heap," said Lincoln. In fourteen years a father can pile up quite a lot of good deeds. But I suppose he has done a lot of mean deeds to cancel them off, has he?"

"No," admitted Dan.

His frankness pleased the president. "I congratulate you, Dan You are honest. I want to be honest with you. I am going to tell you a story that isn’t funny.

You see, you and I are in the same boat—yes, both of us are in the same boat. I am in the army, in a way. I am called the Commander-in-Chief, and occasionally they let me meddle in little things."

"Honest?" said Dan, opening his eyes very wide. He had been so absorbed with his own disasters that he had accepted this curious, friendly acquaintance without question. But now, although the forefront of his consciousness was very active with the conversation, the misty background was trying to compare this man with a certain picture in the family album, with another one pasted on the dining room cupboard door: the same loose-hung person, only this one had a living rawness—maybe it was bigness about him that the pictures did not give, like a tree, perhaps. But it couldn’t be the President talking to him, Dan. If it was what would the folks at home—And again his thought stopped. There would be no more "folks at home" for him.

To be continued