On an unusually mild afternoon in late November, I peer out the window of the Springfield-Vandalia stagecoach. While I should be filled with excitement to have attended my first session as a legislator, I can't stop thinking about the embarrassment I suffered a few days ago in Judge Green's makeshift courtroom. When Berry and I gave Billy Greene our note to purchase his store, he assigned it, without notifying us, to Reuben Radford from whom he had previously purchased the business. Radford then approved our note to Peter Van Bergen, a sharp-eyed businessman, to satisfy a debt. When Radford didn't pay, Van Bergen filed a lawsuit against me and Berry. As I stood before Judge Green complained that he had no choice but to award the tight-fisted Van Bergen a judgment against my horse and my surveying instruments. I would have to find some cash to pay for it – almost four hundred dollars – or everything I owned would be sold at auction. Only my books escaped the constraint because Green attributed no value to them; he winked at me with his gavel. But what good are books when my future is evaporating before my eyes? After toiling in the stagecoach for nearly thirty hours, we are now approaching the Vandalia post office, in the heart of capital. The few wooden huts peeking through the clouds of dust rising from the city's dirt roads are interspersed with the occasional brick and clapboard house. John Stuart, my mentor and fellow anti-Jackson legislator, sits across from me. His unperturbed face speaks of his familiarity with the proceedings that will soon begin. I, on the other hand, expose my inexperience with a line of sweat that collects along my freshly starched collar. At the urging of several New Salem friends, Coleman Smoot got... middle of paper... a drop of blood from his finger with my handkerchief. "Is that better?" I ask. After hesitating, Fannie smiles. “Thanks, Abe. I believe you have the gift of healing.” Looking at Mrs. Herndon through the quilting frame I say, “I'm embarrassed and I'm hoping you can give me some advice. Which of these two girls should I marry?” Annie glares at me and begins embroidering frantically, looking straight ahead, not bothering to look down at her work. Noticing her long, ragged stitches, I point to her oversight and say, “Why Annie, I think your needle fell off on its own.” She jumps from her seat and throws the needle onto the quilt. I take her hand. He tears it away. Please sit down. “I was just kidding,” I say. Without acknowledging my embarrassing apology, she runs away crying. I stand, stunned as she disappears around the corner, my heart full of shame..