The next day after his return, Abe received a letter for Ann.  She had come over to the store on the arrival of the stage and taken her letter and run home with it.  That Saturday’s stage brought the new suit of clothes from Springfield.  Sunday morning Abe put it on and walked over to Kelso’s.  Mrs. Kelso was sweeping the cabin.

“We shall have to stand outside a moment,” said Jack.  “I have an inappeasable hatred of brooms.  A lance in the hand of the Black Knight was not more terrible than a broom in the hands of a righteous woman.  I had to flee from The Life and Adventures of Duncan Campbell when I saw the broom flashing in a cloud of dust and retreated.”

He stepped to the door and said:  “A truce, madam!  Here is the Honorable Abraham Lincoln in his new suit.”

Mrs. Kelso came out-of-doors and she and her husband surveyed the tall young Postmaster.

“Well it is, at least, sufficient,” said Kelso.

“The coat ought to be a little longer,” Mrs. Kelso suggested.

“It will be long enough before I get another,” said Abe.

“It is not what one would call an elegant suit but it’s all right,” Kelso added.

“The fact is, elegance and I wouldn’t get along well together,” Abe answered.  “It would be like going into partnership with Bill Berry.”

“Next month you’ll be off at the capital and we shall be going to Tazewell County,” said Kelso.

“To Tazewell County!”

“Aye.  It’s a changing world!  We should always remember that things can not go on with us as they are.  The Governor has given me a job.”

“And me a great sadness,” said Abe.  “You must always let me know where to find you.”

“Aye!  Many a night you and I shall hear the cock crowing.”

It was an Indian summer day of the first week in November.  That afternoon Abe went to the tavern and asked Ann to walk out to the Traylors’ with him.  She seemed to be glad to go.  She was not the cheerful, quick footed, rosy cheeked Ann of old.  Her face was pale, her eyes dull and listless, her step slow.  Neither spoke until they had passed the Waddell cabin and were come to the open fields.

“I hope your letter brought good news,” said Abe.

“It was very short,” Ann answered.  “He took a fever in Ohio and was sick there four weeks and then he went home.  In two months he never wrote a word to me.  And this one was only a little bit of a letter with no love in it.  I don’t believe he will ever come back.  I don’t think he cares for me now or, perhaps, he is married.  I don’t know.  I’m not going to cry about it any more.  I can’t.  I’ve no more tears to shed.  I’ve given him up.”

“Then I reckon the time has come for me to tell you what is on my heart,” said Abe.  “I love you, Ann.  I have loved you for years.  I would have told you long ago but I could not make myself believe that I was good enough for you.  I love you so much that if you can only be happy with John McNamar I will pray to God that he may turn out to be a good and faithful man and come back and keep his promise.”  She looked up at him with a kind of awe in her face.