Passages like this one are the reason I love The Autobiography of William Allen White so much:
I stopped at the home of a girl whom I knew at the university but slightly. I could not rouse the family at the front door, so I walked around the house to the kitchen porch, where she stood with her back to me, ironing. I said, “Laura,” and without a word she whirled and literally jumped into my arms, crying, “Oh, George!” She blushed to a crisp when she found her mistake. I see her every year now at commencement. We are old folks, and George– Heaven knows where he is. But he was never loved in his long life as that little girl must have loved him.
Had he been a president or a senator, rather than a simple Midwest newspaperman, his book would be crowded with awards and ceremony and listings of Great Deeds. There would have been no room for charming little anecdotes like this one.