oln saw the Indian's movement, and he
went out and stood in the shadow in silent sympathy.

"Well, good folks, Sally and I used to know each other before I removed
from Kentuck' to Indiany. After my first wife died of the milk-fever I
was lonesome-like with two young children, and about as poor as I was
lonesome, although I did have a little beforehand. Well, Sally was a
widder, and used to imagine that she must be lonesome, too; and I
thought at last, after that there view of the case had haunted me, that
I would just go up to Kentucky and see. Souls kind o' draw each other a
long way apart; it goes in the air. So I hitched up and went, and I
found Sally at home, and all alone.

"'Sally,' said I, 'do you remember me?'

"'Yes,' said she, 'I remember you well. You are Tommy Linken. What has
brought you back to Kentuck'?'

"'Well, Sally,' said I, 'my wife is dead.'

"'Is that so,' said she, all attention.

"'Yes; wife died more than a year ago, and a good wife she was; and I've
just come back to look for another.'

"She sat like a statue, Sally did, and never spoke a word. So I said:

"'Do you like me, Sally Johnson?'

"'Yes, Tommy Linken.'

"'You do?'

"'Yes, Tommy Linken, I like you well enough to marry you, but I could
never think of such a thing--at least not now.'

"'Why?'

"'Because I'm in debt, and I would never ask a man who had offered to
marry me to pay my debts.'

"'Let me hear all about it,' said I.

"She brought me her account-book from the cupboard. Well, good folks,
how much do you suppose Sally owed? Twelve dollars! It was a heap of
money for a woman to owe in those days.

"Well, I put that account-book straight into my pocket and _run_. When
I came back, all of her debts were paid. I told her so.

"'Will you marry me now?' said I.

"'Yes,' said she.

"And, good folks all, the next morning at nine o'clock we were married,
and we packed up all her things and started on our weddin' tour to
Indiany, and here we be now. Now that is what I call an honest
woman.--Johnnie Kongapod, can you beat that? Come, now, Johnnie
Kongapod."

The Indian still stood in the shadow, with young Abraham beside him. He
did not answer.

"Johnnie is great on telling stories of good Injuns," said Mr. Lincoln,
"and we think that kind o' Injuns have about all gone up to the moonlit
huntin'-grounds."

The tall form of the Indian moved into the light of the doorway. His
eyes gleamed.

"Thomas Linken, that