know. I did not learn her name."

"Is her face familiar? Does she look like a regular customer?"

"No, she is a stranger. I don't think she was ever here before. She came
in an open carriage, with a black woman for an attendant."

"It may be the wife of one of Johnson's new secretaries. Do go down,
Mrs. Keckley," exclaimed my work-girls in a chorus. I went below, and on
entering the parlor, a plainly dressed lady rose to her feet, and asked:

"Is this the dressmaker?"

"Yes, I am a dressmaker."

"Mrs. Keckley?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Lincoln's former dressmaker, were you not?"

"Yes, I worked for Mrs. Lincoln."

"Are you very busy now?"

"Very, indeed."

"Can you do anything for me?"

"That depends upon what is to be done, and when it is to be done."

"Well, say one dress now, and several others a few weeks later."

"I can make one dress for you now, but no more. I cannot finish the one
for you in less than three weeks."

"That will answer. I am Mrs. Patterson, the daughter of President
Johnson. I expect my sister, Mrs. Stover, here in three weeks, and the
dress is for her. We are both the same size, and you can fit the dress
to me."

The terms were satisfactorily arranged, and after measuring Mrs.
Patterson, she bade me good morning, entered her carriage, and drove
away.

When I went up-stairs into the work-room, the girls were anxious to
learn who my visitor was.

"It was Mrs. Patterson, the daughter of President Johnson," I answered,
in response to several questions.

"What! the daughter of our good Moses. Are you going to work for her?"

"I have taken her order."

"I fear that Johnson will prove a poor Moses, and I would not work for
any of the family," remarked one of the girls. None of them appeared to
like Mr. Lincoln's successor.

I finished the dress for Mrs. Patterson, and it gave satisfaction. I
afterwards learned that both Mrs. Patterson and Mrs. Stover were
kindhearted, plain, unassuming women, making no pretensions to elegance.
One day when I called at the White House, in relation to some work that
I was doing for them, I found Mrs. Patterson busily at work with a
sewing-machine. The sight was a novel one to me for the White House, for
as long as I remained with Mrs. Lincoln, I do not recollect ever having
seen her with a needle in her hand. The last work done for the Johnsons
by me were two dresses, one for each of the sisters. Mrs. Patterson
subsequently wrote me a note, requestin