"As I watched the shining creature sitting on the reed, I thought perhaps it was a mother wishing she could tell her child down below to be brave and not mind the mud, for at longest it can last but a little while. Of course there was no way the one could speak and the other hear. But it was a helpful thought. Do you ever think of your mother this way? Do you ever feel when you are in the gloom that she is not very far away, and only waiting until you have been changed, to tell you many things? The Bible calls it 'when this mortal shall have put on Immortality.'" "Immortality," the man repeated, as if to himself. It was the title of the new poem he so liked. Then he said, almost reverently, "Go on, Ann." "_I believe_," she said simply, "that's why I am so happy when I'm singing 'I'm a pilgrim.' It is my soul you hear singing, Abraham--_that part of me that will not die_, that is shouting on the way. Wasn't God good to plan it all so lovely?" Abraham Lincoln turned slowly and looked down on Ann Rutledge. The moon was throwing its first gleams across the river. In the pale light the face and hair with its pale red-gold halo seemed to stand out from the shadowy background like something ethereal and unreal. The man gazed at it. It was so shining--so happy. "You were sobbin' in the cellar not so long ago," he said. "That was the darkness--but always the light comes back." "Because you believe." "Don't you believe? Oh you must believe, Abraham." "Do you want to help me to believe? Do you want to help me to reach the heights--higher heights than man has ever climbed? For I feel that you can help me do even this. You can transform me, and I do not expect to die either--not yet." "What can I do for you?" "Once I saw an eagle rise from a bluff on the river. Easily it lifted itself above everything and soared against the sky. So was I lifted up when I heard you singin' on the heights. All night long I sat thinkin' about it. I could not fathom the mystery then. With the sunrise the matin' call of the bird began to unfold the mystery to me. Ann--Ann Rutledge, I want you to let me love you." "Does love have to be let?" She asked the question, looking out across the water and woods. "No--never. But dams can be built, and then the waters on their way must do one of two things--break the dam or change their course. I do not want to change my course. I do not want to break a dam--if it can be helped--for I'll make a rip-snortin' big smash-up of it if I do. May I love you?" He was looking into her face, which was still shining. "Let me get a letter to John McNeil asking him to release me." "And then, Ann?" "Then--Oh, Abraham Lincoln!--_then_--but we mustn't even talk of it yet"; and she arose from the step. The tall man stood beside her. The rising moon cast a light on his face. The girl looked at it in wonderment. "Abraham," she said, "you do not look like the same man I found here."