As the fire, eating its way through the back log, told the passage of time she stopped and listened. The kettle was steaming and on the kitchen table was a plate of food waiting to be brought in. At last the crunching of the snow under heavy footfalls told her he was coming. But she only turned her wheel a little faster and sung a little heartier as he entered, lest he should know she had been watching. "O, how I love Jesus!" Abe Lincoln hummed as he came by the fire and rubbed his hands; "go on with your song and your work. While I get warm I will tell you a story." "Once there was a great camp-meetin'," he began, settling himself in John Rutledge's big splint-bottom chair. "There was an exhorter named Barcus who helped stir things up to the boilin'-over point. Among those who got shoutin' happy was a fair and fond sister. Brother Barcus and the sister both danced and shouted toward each other. When they met, he said, his benign countenance shinin' with joy, 'Sister, do you love Jesus?' 'Oh, yes,' she whispered rapturously; 'yes--yes--yes.' "'Then kiss brother Barcus,' was this shepherd's advice to his beloved sheep." Abe Lincoln settled back. Ann laughed. Then she said, "Abraham, we are bad; you for telling such a story and I for listening." "No, we are good," he corrected, "you for not askin' the woman's name and I for not tellin' whether she kissed Brother Barcus." Again Ann laughed. Then she glanced at Abe Lincoln and from him to the peg where his hat hung. "Where is your muffler?" she asked. "You didn't lose it, did you?" The tall man looked into the fire a moment before saying, "No--I gave it away." "Gave it away?"--and there was a tone of disappointment in her voice. "Yes. I'll tell you about it. When I got out to Kelly's I found the poor woman in bed, and a new-born baby. The little thing didn't have any clothes or any warm blanket to wrap around it. I looked at that fine, thick, warm, wool muffler all made by your hands, and I hated to give it up. But that baby, Ann--it was such a little helpless thing and so pitiful, and its mother's eyes looked in such a hungry way at that gray muffler, I couldn't help it. So I wrapped it up myself. And I felt that if you had been there you would have done the wrappin'. In fact, I could see you foldin' the warm cover around that poor little thing. You would have done it--wouldn't you, Ann?" "Yes, Abraham." "I was sure of it. Perhaps you'll make me another some time. Now go on with your spinnin' and your song. It is the best music a tired man could ever hear." Ann turned the wheel a few times, but she did not sing. "When a woman gets loving Jesus," he observed, "it's a sign she's lovin' somebody else. Who do you love, Ann?" This unexpected question took Ann quite by surprise. "You know as well as I do that I am engaged to marry John McNeil. And don't you think he is one of the best young men in town?" There was a suggestion of appeal in the question.