maintained.

While at Steubenville I learned that my father was going to Wheeling
and Cincinnati to sell the tablecloths he had woven. I waited for the
boat, which did not arrive till late in the evening, and went down to
meet him. I remember how deeply affected I was on finding that instead
of taking a cabin passage, he had resolved not to pay the price, but
to go down the river as a deck passenger. I was indignant that one of
so fine a nature should be compelled to travel thus. But there was
comfort in saying:

"Well, father, it will not be long before mother and you shall ride in
your carriage."

My father was usually shy, reserved, and keenly sensitive, very saving
of praise (a Scotch trait) lest his sons might be too greatly
uplifted; but when touched he lost his self-control. He was so upon
this occasion, and grasped my hand with a look which I often see and
can never forget. He murmured slowly:

"Andra, I am proud of you."

The voice trembled and he seemed ashamed of himself for saying so
much. The tear had to be wiped from his eye, I fondly noticed, as he
bade me good-night and told me to run back to my office. Those words
rang in my ear and warmed my heart for years and years. We understood
each other. How reserved the Scot is! Where he feels most he
expresses least. Quite right. There are holy depths which it is
sacrilege to disturb. Silence is more eloquent than words. My father
was one of the most lovable of men, beloved of his companions, deeply