“Why don’t you go to the growing and prosperous town of Springfield,” Mr. Lincoln asked.  “The capitol will be there, and so will I. It is going to be a big city.  Men who are to make history will live in Springfield.  You must come and help.  The state will need a man of your good sense.  It would be a great comfort to me to have you and Sarah and Harry and the children near me.  I shall need your friendship, your wisdom and your sympathy.  I shall want to sit often by your fireside.  You’ll find a good school there for the children.  If you’ll think of it seriously, I’ll try to get you into the public service.”

“We need you plenty,” Samson answered.  “We kind o’ think o’ you as one o’ the family.  I’ll talk it over with Sarah and see.  Never mind the job.  If I keep you behavin’ yourself, it’ll be job enough.  Anyway, I guess we can manage to get along.  Sarah’s uncle in Boston died last month and left her a little money.  If we can get what we have well invested, all I shall need will be a few acres and a few tools and some friends to swap stories with.”

“I’ve had a talk with Stuart and have some good news for Harry and Bim,” said young Mr. Lincoln.  “Stuart thinks she can get a divorce under the law of 1827.  I suppose they are still interested in each other.”

“He’s like most of the Yankees.  Once he gets set, it’s hard to change him.  The Kelsos have moved to Chicago, and I don’t know how Bim stands.  If Harry knows, he hasn’t said a word to us about it.”

“I’m interested in that little romance,” said the legislator.  “It’s our duty to do what we can to secure the happiness of these young lovers.  We mustn’t neglect that in the pressure of other things.  They and their friends are dear to me.  Tell Harry to come over here.  I want to talk with him.”

This dialogue was about the last incident in the visit of Samson Traylor.

Late in the historic session of that spring, wherein the Whigs adopted the convention system of nominations and many plans were made for the expenditure of visionary millions, young Mr. Lincoln received a letter from his friend, Mrs. Bennet Able of New Salem, which conveyed a shock to his nerves.  Before, he had gone to the session, Mrs. Able had said to him lightly: 

“Abe, I’ll ask my sister Mary to come up here for a visit if you’ll agree to marry her.”

“All right,” the young man had answered playfully.  He remembered Mary.  When he had left Kentucky, years before, Mary—­a slender, sweet-faced girl—­had been one of those who bade him good-by.

The letter had said among other things:  “Mary has come, and now we expect you to keep your word.”

No knight of old had a keener sense of chivalry than the young statesman of Salem Hill.  It was almost as Quixotic as the excesses at which Cervantes aimed his ridicule.  An appalling fear took possession of him—­a fear that Mrs. Able and the girl had taken him seriously.  It worried him.