“’Say, they’ve got a railroad train on a track over in Ohio, but they can’t make it run.  I wouldn’t wonder if you could help ’em.’”

Brimstead added in a half whisper: 

“Biggs went on, but the poor devil is livin’ a God lonesome life.  He can’t sleep in a buildin’ an’ his food’ll have to be throwed to him.  It’s a new way to defeat justice.”

Abe’s laughter was like the neigh of a horse.  It brought Harry out of the house.  He mounted his pony and, as they rode away, Abe told him of the fate of Biggs.

“I don’t believe he’ll take another Illinois girl away with him,” Abe laughed.

“Talk about the chains of bondage!  He’s buried in ’em,” Harry exclaimed.

In a moment he said:  “That lovely girl gave me a necktie and a pair of gloves that she has knit with her own hands.  I’ll never forget the way she did it and the look of her.  It rather touched my heart.”

“She’s as innocent as a child,” said Abe.  “It’s hard on a girl like that to have to live in this new country.  Her father and mother have promised to let her come for a visit with Ann.  I’ll go up next Saturday and take her down to New Salem with me.”

This kindly plan of Abe’s—­so full of pleasant possibilities—­fell into hopeless ruin next day, when a letter came from Dr. Allen, telling him that Ann was far gone with a dangerous fever.  Both Abe and Harry dropped their work and went home.  Ann was too sick to see her lover.

The little village was very quiet those hot summer days.  The sorrow of the pretty maiden had touched the hearts of the simple kindly folk who lived there.  They would have helped her bear it—­if that had been possible—­as readily as they would have helped at a raising.  For a year or more there had been a tender note in their voices when they spoke of Ann.  They had learned with great gladness of her engagement to marry Abe.  The whole community were as one family with its favorite daughter about to be crowned with good fortune greater than she knew.  Now that she was stricken down, their feeling was more than sympathy.  The love of justice, the desire to see a great wrong righted, in a measure, was in their hearts when they sought news of the little sufferer at the tavern.

There was no shouting in the street, no story-telling in the dooryards, no jesting in the stores and houses, no merry parties, gladdened by the notes of the violin, in the days and nights of Ann’s long illness.

Samson writes in his diary that Abe went about like a man in a dream, with no heart for work or study.  He spent much time at the Doctor’s office, feeling for some straw of hope.

One day late in August, as he stood talking with Samson Traylor in the street, Dr. Allen called him from his door-step.  Abe turned very pale as he obeyed the summons.

“I’ve just come from her bedside,” said Dr. Allen.  “She wants to see you.  I’ve talked it over with her parents, and we’ve decided to let you and her have a little visit together.  You must be prepared for a great change in Ann.  There’s not much left of the poor girl.  A breath would blow her away.  But she wants to see you.  It may be better than medicine.  Who knows?”