"All right," the young man had answered playfully. He remembered Mary. When he had left Kentucky, years before, Mary—a slender, sweet-faced girl—had been one of those who bade him good-by.
The letter had said among other things: "Mary has come, and now we expect you to keep your word."
No knight of old had a keener sense of chivalry than the young statesman of Salem Hill. It was almost as Quixotic as the excesses at which Cervantes aimed his ridicule. An appalling fear took possession of him—a fear that Mrs. Able and the girl had taken him seriously. It worried him.
About this time Harry Needles arrived in Vandalia. The Legislature had adjourned for a week-end. It was a warm, bright Saturday, early in March. The two friends went out for a stroll in the woods.
"Have you seen Mrs. Able's sister, Mary Owens?" Abe Lincoln asked.
"I've seen her often."
"What kind of a girl is she?"
"A good kind, but-heavy."
"Fat?"
"Massive and most of her front teeth gone." Lincoln looked thoughtful.