of those markings in human faces, "How ugly!" But it seems to me
that, to any one with eyes and imagination, line and wrinkle and hollow
always have the somber grandeur of tragedy. I remember my mother when
her face was smooth and had the shallow beauty that the shallow dote on.
But her face whereon was written the story of fearlessness, sacrifice,
and love,--that is the face beautiful of my mother for me.

In the midst of those times of trial, when she had ceased to smile,--for
she had none of that hypocritical cheerfulness which depresses and is a
mere vanity to make silly onlookers cry "Brave!" when there is no true
bravery,--just when we were at our lowest ebb, came an offer from Bill
Dominick to put me into politics.

I had been interested in politics ever since I was seven years old. I
recall distinctly the beginning:--

On a November afternoon,--it must have been November, though I remember
that it was summer-warm, with all the windows open and many men in the
streets in shirt-sleeves,--at any rate, I was on my way home from
school. As I neared the court-house I saw a crowd in the yard and was
reminded that it was election day, and that my father was running for
reelection to the state senate; so, I bolted for his law office in the
second story of the Masonic Temple, across the street from the
court-house.

He was at the window and was looking at the polling place so intently
that he took no notice of me as I stood beside him. I know now why he
was absorbed and why his face was stern and sad. I can shut my eyes and
see that court-house yard, the long line of men going up to vote, single
file, each man calling out his name as he handed in his ballot, and Tom
Weedon--who shot an escaping prisoner when he was deputy
sheriff--repeating the name in a loud voice. Each oncoming voter in that
curiously regular and compact file was holding out his right arm stiff
so that the hand was about a foot clear of the thigh; and in every one
of those thus conspicuous hands was a conspicuous bit of white paper--a
ballot. As each man reached the polling window and gave in his name, he
swung that hand round with a stiff-armed, circular motion that kept it
clear of the body and in full view until the bit of paper disappeared in
the slit in the ballot box.

I wished to ask my father what this strange spectacle meant; but, as I
glanced up at him to begin my question, I knew I must not, for I felt
that I was seeing something which s