"You solemnly promise you will not tell--at least not until I come back?" "I'd like to know what it is before I promise. It doesn't seem right to keep things from Father and Mother. I never do." "Not even my secrets? Don't you trust me, Ann?" "Of course I do, John." "Then promise." Ann was sorely puzzled. Her lips twitched. "Promise," he repeated, "and don't cry. It's nothing to cry about." Still Ann hesitated. "Father would think it strange." "How can he think it strange if he knows nothing about it?" "I promise," she said solemnly. "All right, then, my name is not John McNeil at all." Ann stared at him a moment. Then with something like a gasp she said, "Your name is not John McNeil? What is it? Who are you?" "Just this. I came here from--nobody knows just where, not even you, Ann. I named myself John McNeil because I wanted to lose myself." "What for?" she questioned mechanically. "Back where I came from my folks are poor--these no-account poor that every enterprising man despises. I wanted to get something together and knew I should never be able to do it if they learned where I was, for I was eternally being called on to help them and keep them from starving when I was where they could call on me." "Have you heard nothing from them since you came here?" "Nothing." "Oh, John! how could you? Perhaps your mother has wanted for something." "She would have wanted just the same if I had been there." "She might even be dead." "I don't think so and hope not. At any rate, I have made some money. Now I'm going back to get the rest of them and I want you to wait for me until I come back. But your name will never be Ann McNeil." "What will it be?" she asked with pale lips. "Well," he said, looking at her with a half-smile, "if it's not Mrs. Abraham Lincoln before I return, it will be Mrs. James McNamra." "James McNamra," she repeated as if puzzled. "I never heard the name." "It is my name. You will get used to it." Ann was silent. She was making an effort to choke back great lumps that kept rising in her throat. Then the tears came and ran over the rims of her dark, blue eyes. "How funny women are," McNeil said. "There's nothing to cry about, and I want to see you laughing the last time." "I want to tell Mother and Father," she sobbed. "You said you wouldn't. Are you going to keep your promise?" "Yes," she answered. "Then kiss me good-night. To-morrow I will ride past here on my way to Springfield. But there'll be no kissing then. The town folks will have enough to talk about as it is." * * * * * After McNeil had left town Ann began watching the post-office, and the postmaster rendered her careful help in the matter. But days went by and no letter came. The fair face of Ann Rutledge took on a worried look, and had it not been for the kindly assistance of the postmaster the gossips might have known more of Ann's correspondence--or lack of it, than they had yet been able to learn.