"If I'm diplomatic, yes. But I hate to do it. He's harassed enough. I wonder sometimes if he's human to stand all he does. If he knew the truth—O my God——"
"Don't worry, Madam," Lizzie pleaded. "It will come out all right. The President is sure to be re-elected."
"That's it, is he? I'm beginning to lose faith. He'll never win if the scoundrels in Washington can prevent it. There's just one man in Congress his real friend. I can't make him see that the hypocrites he keeps in his Cabinet are waiting and watching to stab him in the back. But what's the use to talk, I've got to face it to-day—ask Phœbe to come here."
"Let me go, Madam," Lizzie begged. "I hate the sight of that woman. I suspect her of nosing into our affairs."
"Nonsense!" was the contemptuous answer. "Phœbe's just a big, fat, black, good-natured fool. It rests me to look at her—she's so much fatter than I am."
With a shrug of her shoulders the dressmaker rose and rang for the colored maid, who had just entered Mrs. Lincoln's service.
Phœbe walked in with a glorious smile lighting her dusky face. Seeing her mistress lying down at the unusual hour of eleven o'clock in the morning, she rushed to her side:
"Laws of mussy, Ma'am, ain't you well!"
"Just a little spell of nerves, Phœbe, something that never worries your happy soul——"
"No, Ma'am, dat dey don't!" the black woman laughed.