y were
solemnly betrothed. Even then the scrupulous maiden waited for the
return of the absent McNamar, that she might be formally released from
the obligation to him which he had so recklessly forfeited. Her friends
argued with her that she was carrying her scruples too far, and at last,
as neither man nor letter came, she permitted it to be understood that
she would marry Abraham Lincoln as soon as his legal studies should be
completed.

"That was a glorious summer for him; the brightest, sweetest, most
hopeful he yet had known. It was also the fairest time he was ever to
see; for even now, as the golden days came and went, they brought an
increasing shadow on their wings. It was a shadow that was not to pass
away. Little by little came indications that the health of Ann Rutledge
had suffered under the prolonged strain to which she had been subjected.
Her sensitive nature had been strung to too high a tension and the
chords of her life were beginning to give way.

"There were those of her friends who said that she died of a broken
heart, but the doctors called it 'brain fever.'

"On the 25th of August, 1835, just before the summer died, she passed
away from earth. But she never faded from the heart of Abraham
Lincoln. . . . In her early grave was buried the best hope he ever knew,
and the shadow of that great darkness was never entirely lifted from
him.

"A few days before Ann's death a message from her brought her betrothed
to her bedside, and they were left alone. No one ever knew what passed
between them in the endless moments of that last sad farewell; but
Lincoln left the house with inexpressible agony written upon his face.
He had been to that hour a man of marvelous poise and self-control, but
the pain he now struggled with grew deeper and more deep, until, when
they came and told him she was dead, his heart and will, and even his
brain itself gave way. He was utterly without help or the knowledge of
possible help in this world or beyond it. He was frantic for a time,
seeming even to lose the sense of his own identity, and all New Salem
said that he was insane. He piteously moaned and raved:

"'I never can be reconciled to have the snow, rain, and storms beat upon
her grave.'

"His best friends seemed to have lost their influence over him, . . . all
but one; for Bowling Green . . . managed to entice the poor fellow to his
own home, a short distance from the village, there to keep watch and
ward over him