the
world. It was his last hour with her. When he came out, his face was
white with the agony of parting.

A few days later, she died and Lincoln was almost insane with grief.
He walked for hours in the woods, refused to eat, would speak to no
one, and there settled upon him that profound melancholy which came
back, time and again, during the after years. To one friend he said:
"I cannot bear to think that the rain and storms will beat upon her
grave."

When the days were dark and stormy he was constantly watched, as his
friends feared he would take his own life. Finally, he was persuaded
to go away to the house of a friend who lived at some distance, and
here he remained until he was ready to face the world again.

A few weeks after Anne's burial, McNamar returned to New Salem. On his
arrival he met Lincoln at the post-office and both were sorely
distressed. He made no explanation of his absence, and shortly seemed
to forget about Miss Rutledge, but her grave was in Lincoln's heart
until the bullet of the assassin struck him down.

In October of 1833, Lincoln met Miss Mary Owens, and admired her
though not extravagantly. From all accounts, she was an unusual woman.
She was tall, full in figure, with blue eyes and dark hair; she was
well educated and quite popular in the little community. She was away
for a time, but returned to New Salem in 1836, and Lincoln at once
began to call upon her, enjoying her wit and beauty. At that time she
was about twenty-eight years old.

One day Miss Owens was out walking with a lady friend and when they
came to the foot of a steep hill, Lincoln joined them. He walked
behind with Miss Owens, and talked with her, quite oblivious to the
fact that her friend was carrying a heavy baby. When they reached the
summit, Miss Owens said laughingly: "You would not make a good
husband, Abe."

They sat on the fence and a wordy discussion followed. Both were angry
when they parted, and the breach was not healed for some time. It was
poor policy to quarrel, since some time before he had proposed to Miss
Owens, and she had asked for time in which to consider it before
giving a final answer. His letters to her are not what one would call
"love-letters." One begins in this way:

"MARY:--I have been sick ever since my arrival, or I should
have written sooner. It is but little difference, however,
as I have very little even yet to write. And more, the
longer I can avoid the mor