No sooner was I fully established in my eyrie, than I was summoned to Rochester, by my friend Miss Anthony, to fill an appointment she had made for me with Miss Adelaide Johnson, the artist from Washington, who was to idealize Miss Anthony and myself in marble for the World’s Fair.  I found my friend demurely seated in her mother’s rocking-chair hemming table linen and towels for her new home, anon bargaining with butchers, bakers, and grocers, making cakes and puddings, talking with enthusiasm of palatable dishes and the beauties of various articles of furniture that different friends had presented her.  All there was to remind one of the “Napoleon of the Suffrage Movement” was a large escritoire covered with documents in the usual state of confusion—­Miss Anthony never could keep her papers in order.  In search of any particular document she roots out every drawer and pigeon hole, although her mother’s little spinning wheel stands right beside her desk, a constant reminder of all the domestic virtues of the good housewife, with whom “order” is of the utmost importance and “heaven’s first law.”  The house was exquisitely clean and orderly, the food appetizing, the conversation pleasant and profitable, and the atmosphere genial.

A room in an adjoining house was assigned to Miss Johnson and myself, where a strong pedestal and huge mass of clay greeted us.  And there, for nearly a month, I watched the transformation of that clay into human proportions and expressions, until it gradually emerged with the familiar facial outlines ever so dear to one’s self.  Sitting there four or five hours every day I used to get very sleepy, so my artist arranged for a series of little naps.  When she saw the crisis coming she would say:  “I will work now for a time on the ear, the nose, or the hair, as you must be wide awake when I am trying to catch the expression.”  I rewarded her for her patience and indulgence by summoning up, when awake, the most intelligent and radiant expression that I could command.  As Miss Johnson is a charming, cultured woman, with liberal ideas and brilliant in conversation, she readily drew out all that was best in me.

Before I left Rochester, Miss Anthony and her sister Mary gave a reception to me at their house.  As some of the professors and trustees of the Rochester University were there, the question of co-education was freely discussed, and the authorities urged to open the doors of the University to the daughters of the people.  It was rather aggravating to contemplate those fine buildings and grounds, while every girl in that city must go abroad for higher education.  The wife of President Hill of the University had just presented him with twins, a girl and a boy, and he facetiously remarked, “that if the Creator could risk placing sexes in such near relations, he thought they might with safety walk on the same campus and pursue the same curriculum together.”