I doubt that any of us come to our faith alone. I did not. Ours was a small city American house, to which the preacher, sometimes the bishop, came to dinner. But I remember that after grace, no sanctimony was served. There was as much humor as solemnity in my religious instruction, and I recall particularly one story which was a part of my teaching. It was about Woodrow Wilson's father, the Reverend Joseph Ruggles Wilson, who was a minister at the Presbyterian Church in Wilmington, North Carolina, to which many members of my mother's family belonged. In the Methodist Church, to which my father belonged, those were the days of testimonial meetings, which sometimes became