“Really? Where were you, Virginia?”
“Oh, way back! I was passing the court-house, and I heard two colored men speak about it. One said: ‘Dan Carter, he’s makin’ a great speech, yessuh, he sho’ is. ’Pears like he’s got dat jury all bemuzzled!’” Virginia laughed delightedly. “I went in after that. It was so crowded I thought I’d have to stand, but Mr. Payson was there near the door, and he made some one bring a chair. I could just see the back of your head, Dan, but I heard.”
His face glowed now.
“How strange!” he exclaimed in a low voice. “I knew you were there. No, I didn’t see you, Virginia. I was speaking, and suddenly—well, I felt that you were there. I remember I half looked around. I thought you’d smile at me.”
She gave him a quick, startled look—a look that seemed to express some new perception of him; but his eyes were averted. He was smiling absently, as if talking to himself.
“I didn’t smile, Dan,” she said softly. “I was too deeply touched. I don’t know why we all felt that way, but we did. Yet when I took your speech to pieces in my mind I found how simple it was. You just told us that man’s story, but you told it so simply it went straight to our hearts.”
He smiled.
“That’s all I can do, Virginia. I’m a simple fellow—I can only tell the simple truth. There’s no cause for all this—this fanfare of trumpets in the newspapers, I mean—about my speech. Anybody could do it.”
She shook her head.
“Nobody else could do it. That’s just it. You’re like Lincoln, Dan. They say he thought nothing of the Gettysburg address. I believe he wrote it on his way there. I wish you’d tell me when you’re going to speak again. I want to be there; I want to hear you ‘bemuzzle’ the jury again.”