There were thoughts inside Abraham Lincoln’s head that even Sally did not know anything about.

4

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Abe took another bite of cornbread and swallowed hard.  “Don’t you like it?” asked Sally anxiously.  “I know it doesn’t taste like the cornbread Mammy used to make.”

She looked around the room.  The furniture was the same as their mother had used—­a homemade table and a few three-legged stools.  The same bearskin hung before the hole in the wall that was their only door.  But Nancy had kept the cabin clean.  She had known how to build a fire that didn’t smoke.  Sally glanced down at her faded linsey-woolsey dress, soiled with soot.  The dirt floor felt cold to her bare feet.  Her last pair of moccasins had worn out weeks ago.

“I don’t mind the cornbread—­at least, not much.”  Abe finished his piece, down to the last crumb.  “If I seem down in the mouth, Sally, it is just because—­”

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He walked over to the fireplace, where he stood with his back to the room.

“He misses Nancy,” said Dennis bluntly, “the same as the rest of us.  Then Tom has been gone for quite a spell.”

Sally put her hand on Abe’s shoulder.  “I’m scared.  Do you reckon something has happened to Pappy?  Isn’t he ever coming back?”

Abe stared into the fire.  He was thinking of the wolves and panthers loose in the woods.  There were many dangers for a man riding alone over the rough forest paths.  The boy wanted to say something to comfort Sally, but he had to tell the truth.  “I don’t know, I—­”

He stopped to listen.  Few travelers passed by their cabin in the winter, but he was sure that he heard a faint noise in the distance.  It sounded like the creak of wheels.  The noise came again—­this time much closer.  A man’s voice was shouting:  “Get-up!  Get-up!”

“Maybe it’s Pappy!” Abe pushed aside the bearskin and rushed outside.  Sally and Dennis were right behind him.

“It is Pappy,” Sally cried.  “But look—­”

Tom Lincoln had left Pigeon Creek on horseback.  He was returning in a wagon drawn by four horses.  He was not alone.  A strange woman sat beside him, holding a small boy in her lap.  Two girls, one about Sally’s age, the other about eight, stood behind her.  The wagon was piled high with furniture—­more furniture than the Lincoln children had ever seen.

“Whoa, there!” Tom Lincoln pulled at the reins and brought the wagon to a stop before the door.

“Here we are, Sarah.”  He jumped down and held out his hand to help the woman.

She was very neat looking, tall and straight, with neat little curls showing at the edge of her brown hood.  She said, “Tsch!  Tsch!” when she saw Tom’s children.  She stared at their soiled clothing, their matted hair, their faces smudged with soot.  “Tsch!  Tsch!” she said again, and Abe felt hot all over in spite of the cold wind.  He dug the toe of his moccasin into the frozen ground.