"Well, there's no help for it then. I must ask him. I dread it. Mr. Lincoln calls me a child--a spoiled child. He's the child. He has no idea of what these things cost. Why can't a Nation that spends two millions a day on contractors and soldiers give its President a salary he can live on?" She threw herself on the lounge and gave way for a moment to despair. "He'll give it to you, of course, when you ask it," Lizzie ventured cheerfully. "If I'm diplomatic, yes. But I hate to do it. He's harassed enough. I wonder sometimes if he's human to stand all he does. If he knew the truth--O my God----" "Don't worry, Madam," Lizzie pleaded. "It will come out all right. The President is sure to be re-elected." "That's it, is he? I'm beginning to lose faith. He'll never win if the scoundrels in Washington can prevent it. There's just one man in Congress his real friend. I can't make him see that the hypocrites he keeps in his Cabinet are waiting and watching to stab him in the back. But what's the use to talk, I've got to face it to-day--ask Phoebe to come here." "Let me go, Madam," Lizzie begged. "I hate the sight of that woman. I suspect her of nosing into our affairs." "Nonsense!" was the contemptuous answer. "Phoebe's just a big, fat, black, good-natured fool. It rests me to look at her--she's so much fatter than I am." With a shrug of her shoulders the dressmaker rose and rang for the colored maid, who had just entered Mrs. Lincoln's service. Phoebe walked in with a glorious smile lighting her dusky face. Seeing her mistress lying down at the unusual hour of eleven o'clock in the morning, she rushed to her side: "Laws of mussy, Ma'am, ain't you well!" "Just a little spell of nerves, Phoebe, something that never worries your happy soul----" "No, Ma'am, dat dey don't!" the black woman laughed. "Hand me a pencil and pad of paper." Phoebe executed her order with quick heavy tread, and stood looking while her mistress scribbled a note to her husband. "Take that to the President, and see that he comes." Phoebe courtesied heavily: "Yassam, I fetch him!" The Hon. Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury, was engaged with the President when Phoebe presented herself at the door of the executive office. John Hay tried in vain to persuade her to wait _a_ few minutes. Phoebe brushed the young diplomat aside with scant ceremony. "G'way fum here, Boy!" she laughed. "Miss Ma'y sent me ter fetch 'im right away. An' I gwine ter fetch 'im!" She threw her ponderous form straight through the door and made for the Chief Magistrate. Mr. Chase was delivering an important argument, but it had no weight with her. She bowed and courtesied to the President. "Excuse me, Governor," he said with a smile. "Good morning, Phoebe." "Good mornin', sah." She extended the note with a second dip of her ponderous form: "Yassah, Miss Ma'y send dis here excommunication ter you, sah!" "You don't say so?" the President cried, breaking into a laugh. "Yassah."