ousand persons, including representative women from almost every
country in Europe, and a large number of women ministers. These made an
impressive group, as they all wore their ministerial robes; and for the
first time I preached in a ministerial robe, ordered especially for
that day. It was made of black crepe de Chine, with great double flowing
sleeves, white silk undersleeves, and a wide white silk underfold down
the front; and I may mention casually that it looked very much better
than I felt, for I was very nervous. My father had come on to Chicago
especially to hear my sermon, and had been invited to sit on the
platform. Even yet he was not wholly reconciled to my public work, but
he was beginning to take a deep interest in it. I greatly desired to
please him and to satisfy Miss Anthony, who was extremely anxious that
on that day of all days I should do my best.

I gave an unusual amount of time and thought to that sermon, and at last
evolved what I modestly believed to be a good one. I never write out
a sermon in advance, but I did it this time, laboriously, and then
memorized the effort. The night before the sermon was to be delivered
Miss Anthony asked me about it, and when I realized how deeply
interested she was I delivered it to her then and there as a rehearsal.
It was very late, and I knew we would not be interrupted. As she
listened her face grew longer and longer and her lips drooped at the
corners. Her disappointment was so obvious that I had difficulty in
finishing my recitation; but I finally got through it, though rather
weakly toward the end, and waited to hear what she would say, hoping
against hope that she had liked it better than she seemed to. But Susan
B. Anthony was the frankest as well as the kindest of women. Resolutely
she shook her head.

"It's no good, Anna," she said; firmly. "You'll have to do better.
You've polished and repolished that sermon until there's no life left in
it. It's dead. Besides, I don't care for your text."

"Then give me a text," I demanded, gloomily.

"I can't," said Aunt Susan.

I was tired and bitterly disappointed, and both conditions showed in my
reply.

"Well," I asked, somberly, "if you can't even supply a text, how do you
suppose I'm going to deliver a brand-new sermon at ten o'clock to-morrow
morning?"

"Oh," declared Aunt Susan, blithely, "you'll find a text."

I suggested several, but she did not like them. At last I said, "I have
it--'Let no ma