Jackson’s laughter pealed. “When the idea was talked about in Washington and Monroe proposed to the cabinet to send me over there—to get me out of the country, my love. That’s his motive and I’m not at all deceived by the flattering language of the letter of invitation. I know what James Monroe had in mind. Your husband is a disturbing influence in these United States. Mrs. Jackson,”—he leaned over and gave her a tweak on her soft arm—“your husband stirs up fights.” “Marches an army in Florida and sets the governor back on his haunches,” put in Eaton. “Beats a British army with a little handful of farmers and hunters. And pirates! A dangerous man, Mrs. Jackson. He licked the Creeks and the Cherokee and made this southwest safe to live in. And there are some people who are talking around among themselves that Andrew Jackson ought to be President of the United States.” “Well, he can’t be!” said Rachel firmly. “I won’t hear of it. He’s not strong nor well, you know that, John Eaton. He can’t even eat plain victuals half the time, and he coughs at night no matter how much salve I rub on his chest. Besides,”—she got to her feet, smoothing out her black silk skirt—“I don’t want to live in any palace—anywhere! Not in Russia. Not in Washington. I’d rather be a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord than to live in the finest palace ever was.” “You haven’t told us what Secretary Adams said,” persisted Emily. “It was really a compliment,” Eaton told them, “though I doubt if Adams intended it that way. He listened to the president’s proposal and snorted. He snorts very eloquently, the little man. ‘Send Andrew Jackson to represent this country in the court of the Czar,’ said he, ‘and that would be the end of peace with Russia!’” The girl’s laughter rippled. She flew across the room and kissed the General’s chin. “You quarrelsome old thing! What a pity they don’t know you as we know you, that soft heart you carry around under all those medals—and bristles!” He kissed her, then pushed her away, his mouth set firmly. “Flattery will get you nothing, young woman! I am not going to let Jack Donelson come home for Christmas. A long trip for a few days’ visit. He spends too much now, the young rascal. All these youngsters,” he told Eaton, “think the old man is made of money. Thirteen-cent cotton and shippers take more than half of that. Sell a fine colt and you get less than the worth of the hay to raise him.” “You shouldn’t have bought all that expensive furniture, Mr. Jackson,” worried Rachel. “We could have got along with what we had.” “We lived in a log blockhouse then. Haven’t you earned a decent bed to sleep in, my dear, after thirty-two years of putting up with me?” “But if the children need the money—” Rachel always spoke of her numerous nieces and nephews who considered the Hermitage their part-time home as “the children.”