They proceeded in silence for a moment. A great flock of wild pigeons darkened the sky above them and filled it with the whirr of their wings. The young man and woman stopped to look up at them. "They are going south," said Abe. "It's a sign of bad weather." They stood talking for a little time. "I'm glad they halted us for we have not far to go," Abe remarked. "Before we take another step I wish you could give me some hope to live on--just a little straw of hope." "You are a wonderful man, Abe," said Ann, touched by his appeal. "My father says that you are going to be a great man." "I can not hold out any such hope to you," Abe answered. "I'm rather ignorant and badly in debt but I reckon that I can make a good living and give you a comfortable home. Don't you think, taking me just as I am, you could care for me a little?" "Yes; sometimes I think that I could love you, Abe," she answered. "I do not love you yet but I may--sometime. I really want to love you." "That is all I can ask now," said Abe as they went on. "Do you hear from Bim Kelso?" "I have not heard from her since June." "I wish you would write to her and tell her that I am thinking of going down to St. Louis and that I would like to go and see her." "I'll write to her to-morrow," said Ann. They had a pleasant visit and while Ann was playing with the baby she seemed to have forgotten her troubles. They stayed to supper, after which the whole family walked to the tavern with them, Joe and Betsey drawing the baby in their "bumble wagon," which Samson had made for them. When Ann began to show weariness, Abe gently lifted her in his arms and carried her. That evening Mrs. Peter Lukins called upon Abe at Sam Hill's store where he sat alone, before the fire, reading with two candles burning on the end of a dry goods box at his elbow. There was an anxious look in her one eye as she accepted his invitation to sit down in the firelight. "I wanted to see you private 'bout Lukins," she began. "There's them that calls him Bony Lukins but I reckon he ain't no bonier than the everidge run o' men--not a bit--an' if he was I don't reckon his bones orto be throwed at him every time he's spoke to that away." Peter Lukins was a slim, sober faced, quiet little man with a long nose who worked in the carding mill. He never spoke, save when spoken to, and then with a solemn look as if the matter in hand, however slight, were likely to affect his eternal welfare. In his cups he was speechless and, in a way, dumb with merriment. He answered no questions, he expressed no opinions, he told no stories. He only smiled and broke into roars of laughter, even if there was no one to share his joy, as if convinced, at last, of the hopeless absurdity of life. Some one told of following him from Springfield to New Salem and of hearing him laugh all the way. Many had noted another peculiarity in the man. He seemed always to have a week's growth of beard on his face.