The ploughs of war had made deep furrows on his soul.
Lincoln, too, had altered.

He had got a stoop in his shoulders as if his back carried a burden.

A beard had been suffered to grow in a ragged fringe about his jaw and cheeks, and there were silver threads in it.
His whole face seemed to have been pinched and hammered together, so that it looked like a mask of pale bronze--a death mask, for it was hard to believe that blood ran below that dry tegument.

But the chief change was in his eyes.

They had lost the alertness they once possessed, and had become pits of brooding shade, infinitely kind, infinitely patient, infinitely melancholy.
Yet there was a sort of weary peace in the face, and there was still humour in the puckered mouth and even in the sad eyes.