she herself was that most wonderful woman in the world who had been the
making of him. I looked then for just a touch of the old frightened,
self-consciousness at finding herself thus so conspicuous; but it did
not come. The little woman plainly had forgotten us. She was no longer
Mrs. Jonas Whitermore among a crowd of strangers listening to a great
man's Old-Home-Day speech. She was just a loving, heart-hungry, tired,
all-but-discouraged wife hearing for the first time from the lips of her
husband that he knew and cared and understood.

"Through storm and sunshine, she was always there at her post, aiding,
encouraging, that I might be helped," the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was
saying. "Week in and week out she fought poverty, sickness, and
disappointments, and all without a murmur, lest her complaints distract
me for one precious moment from my work. Even the nights brought her no
rest, for while I slept, she stole from cot to cradle and from cradle to
crib, covering outflung little legs and arms, cooling parched little
throats with water, quieting fretful whimpers and hushing threatening
outcries with a low 'Hush, darling, mother's here. Don't cry! You'll
wake father--and father must have his sleep.' And father had it--that
sleep, just as he had the best of everything else in the house: food,
clothing, care, attention--everything.

"What mattered it if her hands did grow rough and toil-worn? Mine were
left white and smooth--for my work. What mattered it if her back and her
head and her feet did ache? Mine were left strong and painless--for my
work. What mattered her wakefulness if I slept? What mattered her
weariness if I was rested? What mattered her disappointments if my aims
were accomplished? Nothing!"

The Honorable Jonas Whitermore paused for breath, and I caught mine and