tented. He wanted to see his
people, he said, and before the end of the year he had decided to go
East for a visit. To secure perfect freedom from his business while
gone, he sold out his interest in his store. To Ann he said that he
hoped to bring back his father and mother, and to place them on his
farm. "This duty done," was his farewell word, "you and I will be
married." In the spring of 1834 McNeill started East. The journey
overland by foot and horse was in those days a trying one, and on the
way McNeill fell ill with chills and fever. It was late in the summer
before he reached his home, and wrote back to Ann, explaining his
silence. The long wait had been a severe strain on the girl, and
Lincoln had watched her anxiety with softened heart. It was to him,
the New Salem postmaster, that she came to inquire for letters. It was
to him she entrusted those she sent. In a way the postmaster must have
become the girl's confidant; and his tender heart, which never could
resist suffering, must have been deeply touched. After the long
silence was broken, and McNeill's first letter of explanation came,
the cause of anxiety seemed removed; but, strangely enough, other
letters followed only at long intervals, and finally they ceased
altogether. Then it was that the young girl told her friends a secret
which McNeill had confided to her before leaving New Salem.

He had told her what she had never even suspected before, that John
McNeill was not his real name, but that it was John McNamar. Shortly
before he came to New Salem, he explained, his father had suffered a
disastrous failure in business. He was the oldest son; and in the hope
of retrieving the lost fortune, he resolved to go West, expecting
to return in a few years and share his riches with the rest of the
family. Anticipating parental opposition, he ran away from home; and,
being sure that he could never accumulate anything with so numerous a
family to support, he endeavored to lose himself by a change of name.
All this Ann had believed and not repeated; but now, worn out by
waiting, she took the story to her friends.

With few exceptions they pronounced the story a fabrication and
McNamar an impostor. Why had he worn this mask? His excuse seemed
flimsy. At best, they declared, he was a mere adventurer; and was
it not more probable that he was a fugitive from justice--a thief, a
swindler, or a murderer? And who knew how many wives he might have?
With all New Salem d