I had been so much of a celebrity, in a small local way, that identification of the speaker's heroine was inevitable.

My classmates, of course, guessed the name, and they turned to look at me, and nudged me, and all but pointed at me; their new muslins rustling and silk ribbons hissing.
One or two nearest me forgot etiquette so far as to whisper to me.
"Mary Antin," they said, as the speaker sat down, amid a burst of the most enthusiastic applause,--"Mary Antin, why don't you get up and thank him ?" I was dazed with all that had happened.

Bursting with pride I was, but I was moved, too, by nobler feelings.

I realized, in a vague, far-off way, what it meant to my father and mother to be sitting there and seeing me held up as a paragon, my history made the theme of an eloquent discourse; what it meant to my father to see his ambitious hopes thus gloriously fulfilled, his judgment of me verified; what it meant to Frieda to hear me all but named with such honor.

With all these things choking my heart to overflowing, my wits forsook me, if I had had any at all that day.