"Men have been killed for having no worse manners," Rutledge said dryly.
"But we wouldn't want to be anything but fair," Ann pleaded.
John Rutledge looked at her a moment. Then he reached out his hand and placed it on her red-gold hair.
"Poor little, tender-hearted goose," he said, moving his hand up and down in awkward pats. "Go ahead if it will make you feel any better."
So the letter was written, and approved by John Rutledge. Ann wrapped it in stout brown paper, tied it carefully with string, her father gave her the money to pay its way, and the postmaster mailed it for her.
After the letter had been gone several weeks Ann began watching for a reply. Abe Lincoln also watched, and though no comment was made the matter was of tremendous importance to both of them.
The spring of 1834 rapidly passed into summer. In the home and garden Ann and her mother were busy every day, while with Abe Lincoln time had never seemed to go so fast. His surveying was taking him farther and farther into the county. In every locality he made new friends. His work was bringing him some money also and he had begun to make payments on the giant debt which hung over him. The entire town considered him little less than a hero, one of those uncommon heroes whose valor lies in simple honesty.
Several of the unhappy experiences of debt came to him, however, for his payments were of necessity slow, and once he was sued at the law and was compelled to turn over his horse and watch—two necessaries he had secured. Friends, however, helped him get them back.