“Only a scrub woman.” Florence pressed close to the glass door.
Just then the person inside stood up. Florence caught her breath. She had not been wrong. The one who stood there had been scrubbing. Her dress was pinned up; her arms were bare to the elbow. But surely she was not a regular scrub woman! Seldom had Florence seen a more beautiful face. She was young, too, surely not yet twenty. Cheeks aglow with natural bloom, big eyes shining, brown hair tossed back, she stood there smiling, a picture of natural youth and beauty. Smiling at what? Had she seen them? Yes, she was coming to the door.
“Would you like to come in?” she whispered.
Too astonished to answer, the girls found themselves inside.
The place they had entered was a long, low room. The floor was of rough boards. Massive beams ran from one end to the other of the paneled ceiling. At one side was a curious sort of refreshment stand, and to the right of this the broadest fireplace Florence had ever seen.
Noting the surprised look on Florence’s face, the girl said: “Have you never been here before?”
By her rich, melodious drawl, Florence knew at once that this girl came from the southern mountains.
“This,” the girl went on, “is the Rutledge Tavern. It was by this fireplace that the young man, Abe Lincoln, sat and talked for long hours to a girl with hair like corn tassels in autumn. Can you see them there now? She is sewing. He is dreaming of days that are to come.”
“So this is the spot that charmed my little French friend,” Florence whispered to herself. “Little wonder! Coming from the past with its simple grandeur, it has an appeal all its own.”
“Perhaps,” said the stranger, “you’d like to sit here by the fire. I—I’ll soon be through with my work.”