Thomas Lincoln filled his pipe. "Abe," as his oldest boy was called, sat in the fireplace, "the flue," as it was termed. By his side sat John Hanks, who had recently arrived from Kentucky—a rough, kindly-looking man.
"Wait a minute," said great-hearted Mrs. Lincoln—"wait a minute before you begin."
"What are you going to do, mother (wife)?"
"I'm just going to set these potatoes to roast before the fire, so we can have a little treat all by ourselves when you have got through your story. There, that is all."
The poor woman sat down by the table—she had brought the table to her husband on her marriage; he probably never owned a table—and began to knit, saying:
"Abraham, you mind the potatoes. Don't let 'em burn."
"Yes, mother."
"Mother"—the word seemed to make her happy. Her face lighted. She sat knitting for an hour, silent and serene, while Thomas Lincoln talked.