tions from a higher
world. His former wife, Abraham's mother, had been a mystic, but there
was little sentiment in him.

"You said that you were going to meet Black Hawk," said Mr. Lincoln.
"Where do you expect to find him? He's everywhere, ain't he?"

"I am going to the Sac village at Rock Island. It is a long journey, but
the Voice tells me to go."

"That is away across the Illinois, on the Mississippi River, isn't it?"

"Yes, the Sac village looks down on the Mississippi. It is a beautiful
place. The prairies spread around it like seas. I love to think of it.
It commands a noble view. I do not wonder that the Indians love it, and
made it the burial-place of their race. I would love it myself."

"You favor the Indians, do you?"

"Yes. All men are my brothers. The field is the world. I am going to try
to preach and teach among the Sacs and Foxes, as soon as I can find an
interpreter, and Black Hawk has promised me one. He has sent for him to
come down to Rock Island and meet me. He lives at Prairie du Chien, far
away in the north, I am told."

"Don't you have any antipathy against the Indians, preacher?"

"No, none at all. Do you?"

"My father was murdered by an Indian. Let me tell you about it. Not that
I want to discourage you--you mean well; but I don't feel altogether as
you do about the red-skins, preacher. You and Abe would agree better on
the subject than you and I. Abe is tender-hearted--takes after his
mother."

Thomas Lincoln filled his pipe. "Abe," as his oldest boy was called, sat
in the fireplace, "the flue," as it was termed. By his side sat John
Hanks, who had recently arrived from Kentucky--a rough, kindly-looking
man.

[Illustration: LINES WRITTEN BY LINCOLN ON THE LEAF OF HIS SCHOOL-BOOK
IN HIS FOURTEENTH YEAR.

Preserved by his Step-mother.

_Original in possession of J. W. Weik._]

"Wait a minute," said great-hearted Mrs. Lincoln--"wait a minute before
you begin."

"What are you going to do, mother (wife)?"

"I'm just going to set these potatoes to roast before the fire, so we
can have a little treat all by ourselves when you have got through your
story. There, that is all."

The poor woman sat down by the table--she had brought the table to her
husband on her marriage; he probably never owned a table--and began to
knit, saying:

"Abraham, you mind the potatoes. Don't let 'em burn."

"Yes, mother."

"Mother"--the word seemed to make her happy. Her face lighted. She sat
kn