Lincoln's nomination made very little difference in his daily life. He turned his law practice over to his partner, employed John G. Nicolay, a clerk in the office of the Secretary of State, as his private secretary, was given the use of the Governor's room at the State-House for an office, and devoted his entire time to the reception of visitors and correspondence concerning the campaign. His door stood always open. There was not even an usher. Everybody came and went as freely as when he was a candidate for the Legislature or engaged in his practice. He was the same Abraham Lincoln he had always been, except a little more serious because of increasing responsibilities, and a little more dignified because he was sensible of the honor that had been conferred upon him; but his old friends detected no change in the man, and dropped in to exchange gossip whenever they came to town. Distinguished visitors came from a distance,--statesmen, politicians, wire-pullers, newspaper correspondents, men with great purposes and ambitions, adventurers, lion-hunters, and representatives of all classes and conditions, who usually seek the acquaintance of influential and prominent men and worship a rising sun. He told each a story and sent him away, pleased with his person and impressed with his character. His correspondence had increased enormously and every letter received a polite reply, but he maintained his policy of reticence and gave no indication of his plans or purposes. One day, while a group of distinguished politicians from a distance were sitting in the Governor's room, chatting with Lincoln, the door opened and an old lady in a big sunbonnet and the garb of a farmer's wife came in. "I wanted to give you something to take to Washington, Mr. Lincoln," she said, "and these are all I had. I spun the yarn and knit them socks myself." And with an air of pride she handed him a pair of blue woollen stockings. Lincoln thanked her cordially for her thoughtfulness, inquired after the folks at home, and escorted her to the door as politely as if she had been Queen of England. Then, when he returned to the room, he picked up the socks, held them by the toes, one in each hand, and with a queer smile upon his face remarked to the statesmen around him,-- "The old lady got my latitude and longitude about right, didn't she?" Such incidents occurred nearly every day and were a source of great pleasure to the President, who was never happier than when in the company of "the plain people," as he called them.