boorishness and lack of culture his enemies
had made against the man she loved. She held it her first duty,
therefore, to maintain her place as the First Lady of the Land in a way
that would still those slanderous tongues. For this reason her dresses
had been the most elaborate and expensive the wife of any Chief
Magistrate of the Republic had ever worn. Her big-hearted, careless
husband had no more idea of the cost of such things than a new-born
babe.

Lizzie Garland, the negro dressmaker, to whom she had given her
patronage, practically spent her entire time with the President's wife,
who finally became so contemptuous of unreasonable public criticism in
Washington that she was often seen going to Lizzie Garland's house to be
fitted.

As Lizzie bent over her work basting the new seams in fitting her last
dress, the Mistress of the White House suddenly stopped the nervous
movement of her rocking-chair.

"He demands a thousand dollars to-night, Lizzie?"

"Swears he'll take the whole account to the President to-morrow unless
he gets it, Madam."

"You tried to make him reasonable?"

"Begged him for an hour."

"That's what I get for trading with a little rat in Philadelphia. I'll
stick to Stewart hereafter."

She rose with a gesture of nervous rage:

"Well, there's no help for it then. I must ask him. I dread it. Mr.
Lincoln calls me a child--a spoiled child. He's the child. He has no
idea of what these things cost. Why can't a Nation that spends two
millions a day on contractors and soldiers give its President a salary
he can live on?"

She threw herself on the lounge and gave way for a moment to despair.

"He'll give it to you, of course, when you ask it," Lizzie ventured
cheerfully.

"If I'm diplomatic, yes. But I hate to do it. He's harassed enough. I
wonder sometimes if he's human to stand all he does. If he knew the
truth--O my God----"

"Don't worry, Madam," Lizzie pleaded. "It will come out all right. The
President is sure to be re-elected."

"That's it, is he? I'm beginning to lose faith. He'll never win if the
scoundrels in Washington can prevent it. There's just one man in
Congress his real friend. I can't make him see that the hypocrites he
keeps in his Cabinet are waiting and watching to stab him in the back.
But what's the use to talk, I've got to face it to-day--ask Phoebe to
come here."

"Let me go, Madam," Lizzie begged. "I hate the sight of that woman. I
suspect her of nosing into o