Lincoln, the unknown

Xhe Rutledge tavern was a rough, weather-beaten affairwith nothing whatever to distinguish it from a thousand otherlog cabins along the frontier. A stranger would not have givenit a second glance; but Lincoln could not keep his eyes off itnow, nor his heart out of it. To him, it filled the earth and toweredto the sky, and he never crossed the threshold of it withouta quickening of his heart.Borrowing a copy of Shakspere's plays from Jack Kelso, hestretched himself out on top of the store counter, and, turningover the pages, he read these linesBut, soft!again and again:what light through yonder window breaks?It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.He closed the book. He could not read. He could not think.He lay there for an hour, dreaming, living over in memory allthe lovely things Ann had said the night before. He lived nowfor only one thing—for the hours that he spent with her.Quilting parties were popular in those days, and Ann wasinvariably invited to these affairs, where her slender fingersplied the needle with unusual swiftness and art. Lincoln usedto ride with her in the morning to the place where the quiltingwas to be held, and call for her again in the evening. Once heboldly went into the house—a place where men seldom venturedon such occasions—and sat down beside her. Her heartthrobbed, and a flood of color rose to her face.40In her excite-