She must go out and appear at the receptions and teas planned by wives of officials, but with Christmas at hand now there would be a hiatus in festivities until after the New Year reception at the White House. There was that tiresome affair to plan for, then this Christmas party; it was all hard work and expensive too, and that aspect practical Mary Lincoln always considered seriously. She never saw an elaborate collation spread without secretly adding up in her mind how many bonnets, bracelets, and yards of silk could have been bought with the money. The Christmas tree in the private sitting room upstairs had been set up and Tad put to work stringing popcorn and bits of bright metal for decorations. A corporal had brought in a sackful of scraps of brass discarded by a cartridge manufacturer and these Tad was tying to lengths of his mother’s red wool. He insisted on doing all this in his father’s office, stepped over by the endless streams of officials and callers, and Mary found him there, squatting behind Lincoln’s desk, surrounded by the litter of his festive preparations. She entered as usual without knocking, made a brief stiff bow to Noah Brooks, the correspondent from the West Coast, and puckered her brows at the small woman with curling grayish hair and unfashionable bonnet who occupied the one comfortable chair in the room. The President unlimbered his long legs and jumped up, as did Brooks. “Come in, come in, my dear!” he greeted his wife. “You know Mr. Brooks—and Mary, this is Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, the little woman who wrote the book that started a big war.” Mrs. Stowe held out a gloved hand. “I am happy to be privileged to meet Mrs. Lincoln.” “I read your book, Ma’am.” Mary was gracious. “I cried over it, some parts—but part of it made me mad, too. My family owned slaves, Mrs. Stowe, but they never did beat them or set dogs on them—never!” “One must emphasize the wrong sometimes, Mrs. Lincoln, to bring about what is right,” said Mrs. Stowe. “Undoubtedly your family were Christian people, and exceptional.” “Mama!” wailed Tad. “You’re standing on my yarn!” “I only came,” Mary was flustered, “to report to my husband that I have arranged Christmas gifts for his soldiers—as he requested,” she added. “Sit here, Mrs. Lincoln,” Brooks offered his chair. “No—no, you have business here. Happy to have met you, Ma’am. You must stay and have dinner with us.” Mary bowed again and hoped she had made a graceful exit as became a queen. She wondered, as she went down the hall, why women with brains always looked a little frumpy. That dress—homemade, probably, and it didn’t fit anywhere! It was, she decided, safe to leave a woman of as few charms as Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe in the office, especially chaperoned by Noah Brooks. But Mary Lincoln knew well that if Mrs. Stowe had been young and pretty she herself would never have walked out of that office. 5