cheers, rose to his feet. Then, very quietly, he began to speak.

We had heard he was an orator. Doubtless many of us were familiar with
his famous nickname "Silver-tongued Joe." We had expected great things
of him--a brilliant discourse on the tariff, perhaps, or on our foreign
relations, or yet on the Hague Tribunal. But we got none of these. We
got first a few quiet words of thanks and appreciation for the welcome
extended him; then we got the picture of an everyday home just like
ours, with all its petty cares and joys so vividly drawn that we thought
we were seeing it, not hearing about it. He told us it was a little home
of forty years ago, and we began to realize, some way, that he was
speaking of himself.

"I may, you know, here," he said, "for I am among my own people. I am at
home."

Even then I didn't see what he was coming to. Like the rest I sat
slightly confused, wondering what it all meant. Then, suddenly, into his
voice there crept a tense something that made me sit more erect in my
seat.

"My indomitable will-power? My superb courage? My
stupendous strength of character? My undaunted persistence and
marvelous capacity for hard work?" he was saying. "Do you think it's to
that I owe what I am? Never! Come back with me to that little home of
forty years ago and I'll show you to what and to whom I do owe it. First
and foremost I owe it to a woman--no ordinary woman, I want you to
understand--but to the most wonderful woman in the world."

I knew then. So did my neighbor, the old man at my side. He jogged my