The month was April, the year 1865. All Washington waited eagerly for a glimpse of the General who had ended the war. When the General canceled his appearance at the theater, the President attended instead, for he felt that his presence would lessen the audience's disappointment even though he believed he was a lame substitute for the General. During the third act the assassin crept to the door of the Presidential box. His bullet wounded the President, but not fatally, as so many believed. And so the President lived on. When his second term ended, three years later, the great strain lifted. He was definitely more lighthearted after his return to his home in Illinois. He joked a great deal, and burned tons of personal papers in which, he was convinced, no one would ever take the slightest interest. He was an ex-President, and now more than ever able to laugh at carping politicians. An old ambition stirred. For years he had wanted to visit California, and at last he was free to go. He seemed to thrive under the warm sunshine, the good climate. But gradually his heart became troubled. Then a Memorial Day parade, a little girl, and a laundry wagon provided a surprising climax.