worn face rarely.  She talks awhile in her kindly, incisive way.  “We’re not foolishly or blindly aggressive,” says she, tersely; “we don’t lead a fight against the true and noble institutions of the world.  We only seek to substitute for various barbarian ideas, those of a higher civilization—­to develop a race of earnest, thoughtful, conscientious women.”  And I thought as I remembered various newspaper attacks, that here was not much to object to.  The world is the better for thee, Susan.

She rises; “Come, let me introduce you to Mrs. Stanton.”  And we walk into the inner sanctum, a tiny bit of a room, nicely carpeted, one-windowed and furnished with two desks, two chairs, a little table—­and the senior editor, Mrs. Stanton.  The short, substantial figure, with its handsome black dress and silver crown of curls, is sufficiently interesting.  The fresh, girlish complexion, the laughing blue eyes and jolly voice are yet more so.  Beside her stands her sixteen-year-old daughter, who is as plump, as jolly, as laughing-eyed as her mother.  We study Cady Stanton’s handsome face as she talks on rapidly and facetiously.  Nothing little or mean in that face; no line of distrust or irony; neither are there wrinkles of care—­life has been pleasant to this woman.

[Illustration: 

  SUSAN B. ANTHONY. 
  AT THE AGE OF 48.]

We hear a bustle in the outer room—­rapid voices and laughing questions—­then the door is suddenly thrown open and in steps a young Aurora, habited in a fur-trimmed cloak, with a jaunty black velvet cap and snowy feather set upon her dark clustering curls.  What sprite is this, whose eyes flash and sparkle with a thousand happy thoughts, whose dimples and rosy lips and white teeth make so charming a picture?  “My dear Anna,” says Susan, starting up, and there’s a shower of kisses.  Then follows an introduction to Anna Dickinson.  As we clasp hands for a moment, I look into the great gray eyes that have flashed with indignation and grown moist with pity before thousands of audiences.  They are radiant with mirth now, beaming as a child’s, and with graceful abandon she throws herself into a chair and begins a ripple of gay talk.  The two pretty assistants come in and look at her with loving eyes; we all cluster around while she wittily recounts her recent lecturing experience.  As the little lady keeps up her merry talk, I think over these three representative women.  The white-haired, comely matron sitting there hand-in-hand with her daughter, intellectual, large-hearted, high-souled—­a mother of men; the grave, energetic old maid—­an executive power; the glorious girl, who, without a thought of self, demands in eloquent tones justice and liberty for all, and prophesies like an oracle of old.

May we not hope that America’s coming woman will combine these salient qualities, and with all the powers of mind, soul and heart vivified and developed in a liberal atmosphere, prove herself