"Not much, but it means it, because of course the souls of men and of women do not wither and die like the leaves of the willow and the oak. But I should never have known the meanin'—the full, sure meanin' of the word, nor have entered into the better spirit of the poem, if it had not been for you, Ann Rutledge."
"I am glad if I have helped you, but put the book away. Let's tell our fortunes in the fire."
Lincoln put the book on the table and stirred up a bed of glowing coals. Then, side by side, they looked into the future.
"Look," she said, "at the lines just there. I have a long life-line—so long I must be going to live a hundred years."
He laughed.
"And yours is long. And right in there there is a wedding—and over there are one, two, three—at least half a dozen children for me." She laughed and stirred the coals again. "This now is your fortune. I see journeys and lots of people. I believe I see the capitol building at Vandalia. Maybe you are going to be a great judge or some state official." She stirred again, but this time she turned and said, "I've always wished, Abraham, that you knew some love-stories."
"I do," he answered promptly.
"You?" and she opened her blue eyes wide.
"Yes—the best in the world."
"Where did you get them? You never read story-books."